The Book of Jude
by soupofthedaysara
Summary: People still read this? Written just after the book GoF came out, this story centers on an O/C, one of Voldy's minions who turns her life around and pays pennance by guarding the boy who lived. A/U.
1. Paradise

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original situations and characters are the jealously guarded property of the author. 

Author's Note: This is an Alternate Universe, a story centered on an original character, Jude Elliot. It canvasses different themes of the series, spanning events in canon from James and Lily Potter's deaths, following the four books of Rowling's and continuing on beyond fourth year with plot devised by the author. I have endeavored to be as faithful to the plot of the books as it was possible to be although a few minor changes were unavoidable. They are noted in the author's note wherever they occur. I have cleared up the timeline within the story and attempted to make the passage of events as coherent as possible. I hope you enjoy _The Book Of Jude_. 

Chapter One: Paradise

'And Eden raised in the waste wilderness…' John Milton, Paradise Regained, Line 7 

                She rested her head against the window and looked out at the sky. It was heavy with an imposing blanket of gray clouds. She had a feeling it would surely rain before the day was over. That was just fine with her—the weather seemed to fit her mood. However, the weather was not the only thing on her mind, but it was certainly a more pleasant choice of topic than that which had occupied her thoughts for most of the trip—and most of the previous week, to be honest. She tried to occupy her mind with subjects of indifference, such as the weather, to hide what she really felt—she was nervous. Rarely nervous, or afraid of anything, she resented the fact that her feelings refused to obey her at the moment. She willed herself to calm down, yet her mind continued to race.

                She fingered the silver charm in the shape of a four-pointed star—like compass points—suspended by a chain around her neck and wondered if she really had the courage to take this step. The conclusion she reached was a swift and resounding "No." She'd never considered herself brave before now, so what made her think that she wouldn't chicken out and run as fast as she could back to the only safety she had ever known? That answer was also simple: she had to do this if she was ever going to make a life for herself. 

                _A life for herself_: she almost laughed at the idea. She had never imagined that her life was hers to control. And she still wasn't sure if that's how it worked. Does one control their own life, their own destiny? Or are we all merely toys subject to the capricious whims of fate? No. It had to be the former. If not, then what was the point of making choices in the first place? She had made a choice and now it was up to her to follow through with it. She was determined.

                As the scarlet steam engine skirted the hills of Northern England, the destination approaching with increased speed, she felt her nerves rise to an even higher pitch. She didn't understand why she was working herself up over such a trivial matter. She had managed without magic of any sort for eight years on her own.

"Okay," she reasoned mentally, "so only two of those years I had to manage _alone_ and with out magic." So she concluded that maybe it wasn't giving up magic and everything to do with it that had her so unnerved. Maybe it was the fact that she would be starting over, completely alone—again. 

                "But then," she reflected, "I've really been on my own, in one way or another, for most of my life." She didn't know whether this evaluation of her preparedness was helping or not. It hadn't distracted her from the proverbial butterflies in her stomach, but it had relieved some of the tension. She was ready for this. She was determined to meet this with the same cool indifference that had preserved her throughout past difficulties. Emotions—nervousness and fear—would make her weak and she could not afford to surrender her resolve to such feelings. She _would_ do this. 

"End of discussion," she told herself with finality.

                As she lifted her forehead from the cool glass of the window and leaned back against her seat, shutting her eyes, the door of her cabin opened, letting in the noise of the rowdy students ready for the summer holidays. A head crowned with bright red hair poked in apparently unnoticed by the occupant of the cabin. Before the intruder could offer an explanation for the intrusion, he was interrupted. In an annoyed and weary tone the occupant informed the startled intruder that, yes, this cabin was taken, that she hadn't seen anyone or anything he might be looking for, and that he could not seek refuge here from anyone whom he may have hacked off in any manner that would warrant such a necessity for escape. The red-haired boy met her cold stare evenly.

 "Sorry to have disturbed you, Jude," he apologized in a clipped manner. "I see you're in no mood for company, so I'll just shove off, then." She returned her gaze to the passing countryside as the boy made his way back into the hallway.

"Oh," he paused and poked his head into the cabin once more and continued, "good luck with what ever it is that you plan to do, I hope everything works out for you." 

She glanced at the boy to see if he was serious or if this was merely another joke. She was, after all, the celebrated target of most of the ridicule and teasing at school, so she was able to discern at a glance what was spiteful and what was sincere. It was a talent. This boy, she concluded, was entirely earnest judging by the friendly and somewhat stupid smile he wore.

 "Thanks, Charlie," she said, somewhat taken aback by his statement—but not much. She quickly returned to analyzing the view from her window as the intruder retreated in search of whatever quarry he was pursuing.

                She'd never had any friends at school. She was singled out as the object of hatred for some students, while others were content with just mild ridicule and disdain—following the crowd. Still, Charlie and his brother had actually attempted to befriend her. She had, of course, repelled such attempts at friendship. She refused to be the project of a couple of do-good Gryffindors, however well meaning they may have been. Likewise, she would not be held responsible for ruining the reputation of a popular and well-liked student for the selfish pleasure of companionship. And Bill and Charlie exemplified the popular and well-liked crowd at Hogwarts. Besides, she had done well enough on her own.

 "Anyway," she inwardly joked. "Who could have been a better friend to me than myself?" She had to laugh at that. It was a lie—sometimes she was her own worst enemy. Yet, overall, she was content with the way she had taken up indifference and aloofness as her shield. It had allowed her to handle the past seven years. 

                "Just shy of seven years," she mused. She came to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on October the Thirty-First, Nineteen-Eighty-One. It was now June the Twenty-Sixth, nearly seven years later and this was the first time she had ever taken the Hogwarts Express to or from school. This scarlet steam engine was the way typical students were transported to and from the magical institute. Yet, she was not and never had been the typical student. She, unlike the other children with whom she attended classes, had not arrived by the September First deadline and had not been sorted into one of the four school Houses through the Sorting Ceremony. These were only a few items on the list that set her glaringly apart from her schoolmates. 

                Thinking of her classmates, she had no regrets of what she was leaving behind. By no means was she feeling sorry for herself—that helped no one. She was simply evaluating the last seven years as a method to steady her nerves and to provide ample reason as to why she would not miss this former life. She certainly would not miss any of her own housemates. Although fiercely loyal in theory, even her own House had disowned her. She could not blame them, however. The Slytherins had a reputation to uphold. Her dorm mates, Sabine MacDermod, Adelaide Blake, and Marah Talbot, had been particularly venomous. They had created a somewhat united front against her, and she was willing to believe, as a hobby. If she had actually hated any students at school, these three would be at the top of the list. The catch was though that she didn't really hate anyone, nor did she blame others for her misfortunes. Everyone had their reason for disliking Jude and it was usually a pretty damned good one.

                Her school years did not consist only of disdainful students. There were also a few wretched teachers to throw into the mix. Ptolemais Aster, Astronomy teacher and Head of Slytherin House during Jude's first year, had been one of her many adversaries. He was old and overly cranky and looked on Jude as a problem that he was stuck dealing with. She wondered sometimes if Dumbledore's placement of her in Slytherin House under Professor Aster was intended as punishment. She realized, however, that it was not to be long-lived. Professor Aster retired after her first year, an immense relief. The new Head of House for Slytherin was to be the newly appointed Potions Master, Severus Snape. 

Professor Snape was a man Jude recognized from her past. She knew about his involvement with Voldemort—the self-styled Supreme Dark Wizard of his time—and of his betrayal of the Dark Lord in favor of Albus Dumbledore—Voldemort's only worthy rival and leader of all efforts to end his reign of terror over the wizarding community. Headmaster Dumbledore had offered Professor Snape the position as a teacher at Hogwarts because he was acknowledged as the leading mind in his field. He was also hired because Dumbledore needed someone to look after Jude who was up to the challenge that she presented. And if anyone could understand Jude, it would be Professor Snape. As she had recognized him the first time she saw him at the school, he had also recognized her. She was known by only a handful of people outside the ranks of Voldemort. She was the Dark Lord's student and protégé, until she too defected at the age of ten. Dumbledore had taken her in and allowed her to study magic at his school—of course, under strict guidelines from the Ministry of Magic. The 'handful of people outside the ranks of Voldemort' was the wizard-bureaucrats who invented the many regulations to keep Jude 'under control.' They knew who she was and what she was capable of, so certain rules were invented by them and applied only to her to ensure the safety of the other children she would be attending school with. Basically, this was merely a restriction on fighting back in any way, shape and form. Because of the Ministry, Jude was an undefended target for her classmates. Needless to say, she became very good at keeping out of arms' reach.

                Professor Snape had, over the years, become her friend. He, along with a select few of the staff, Dumbledore included, had done their best to make her years at school bearable. She would miss them—the only people that resembled anything close to a family she had. Jude promised to write to them, but she hadn't decided yet if she would actually keep that promise. Her plan, after all, was to sever all ties with her former life—the bad and the good. 

                The train began to slow. She looked out the window and saw on the southern horizon the buildings and bridges that made London famous. The time had passed swiftly by while Jude had been lost in thought. She felt that seeing the city should have brought back all the feelings of nervous tension she had been fighting, but rather, an eerie calm seemed to spread over her. She had not seen the city for years and she did not relish the memories that came rushing back at the sight of the tall buildings peeping through the thick fog. 

***

The train slipped into King's Cross Station noticed only by those who had come expressly to meet its arrival. Families lined the crowded platform and waved to their children as the train huffed and puffed to a final halt. The doors of the scarlet engine opened and streams of chattering students merged with excited families and annoyed porters carrying trunks and cases of all sizes. Jude remained behind in her cabin while the mob of her former classmates dissipated. In the hallway she gathered her things and headed for the exit. 

As she stepped from the train, she caught sight of Charlie and a gaggle of red heads teeming about him. He smiled and talked animatedly to his family, clearly glad to see them once again. She turned her gaze from the happy family to look for the exit. And a thought suddenly struck her: this was clearly a magical platform in the middle of a Muggle train station, so there had to be some trick to gain passage to the outside world. She looked around her in frustration for any sign or instruction that would clue her in as to how one gets into the Muggle station—and the rest of Muggle London. She felt more ignorant than the daftest first year.

 "No," she thought. "Even first years know how to get out of here, no matter how daft they are." 

While she was mentally kicking herself, she saw the red-haired family disappear through a brick barrier. So that was it—you simply walked through a wall? She picked up her bags and headed to the barrier. She took a breath and stepped through. There was no turning back. 

As she turned around, she was facing a solid brick divider between platforms Nine and Ten. All traces of the magical platform with the glossy red locomotive were gone. She had done it—she was on her own.

She hefted her luggage and resolutely made her way to the Information Desk. After checking the schedule for outgoing trains, she purchased a ticket for the first available one to Cambridge. The only problem was that it didn't leave until four. The clock above the desk read only a quarter 'til one.

 "Excuse me, but do you know where I can check my bags until my train leaves?" she asked a portly and hassled-looking attendant.

The man behind the desk pointed in the direction she should go. She thanked him and hurried over to dispose of her burden. She left all her belongings with a porter to be loaded onto the train—with the exception of a few items: a coat, for it looked more and more like it would rain by the second, and a slim, smooth rod of wood no longer than nine or so inches. The next problem was how she would occupy the three hours before her train departed. 

***

                _'Known by the Sobriquet of 'The Artful Dodger,' Charles Dickens, _Oliver Twist,_ chapter 8._

She didn't like London—she never did. The only advantage of living in London was the ability to lose oneself in the crowd. Still, she had decided that there was nothing else to do to pass the time, so she might as well explore a place that was 'home' to her at one point in her life. She had first entered the city when she was six years old. She and another boy had run away from the orphanage at Basingstoke in Surrey, a small town not that far south of London.

 The orphanage at Basingstoke wasn't horrid like the descriptions of such places one would read about in Dickens, Bronte', or the like. It wasn't, on the other hand, the most wonderful place in the world. It was simply a place to leave children who had nowhere else to go. She was dropped off at this orphanage in Nineteen-Seventy-Two, when she was around one or two years old—so said the report Jude had stolen from Mrs. Bertram's office. It also said that she was dropped off by a woman with sandy-blonde hair that would only leave the office with the name of Elliot. Jude could not fully remember this woman—only in brief flashes of memory could she retrieve any recollection of her. This Ms. Elliot did not claim, nor did she deny claim to, the title of mother of the child that she was abandoning at the orphanage.

Along with the one page report, Jude stole the small bracelet that accompanied the document—the only token she had of a life that she was never allowed to know. This bracelet she kept close to her always, but no longer wore. It was given to her, she assumed at a very young age, for the trinket was very small and could no longer fit around her wrist. It was a simple piece of jewelry and not very expensive, she guessed. The bracelet was merely a braided golden chain attached to a small plate on which was engraved the words 'from a brother who loves you'. So, all in all, the information she had in her possession did not tell her much about herself: she was left by a mother, she assumed, with the surname of Elliot, who did not love her, and she had a brother somewhere who had loved her. The rest of her history was a blank slate on which it was her job to write her life.

The hints of her existence she had stolen—yet not truly stolen, for they were hers to begin with—were augmented only minimally by what she was able to wrangle out of Mrs. Bertram, the mistress of the orphanage and caretaker of all its occupants. Mrs. Bertram did not like the children that her post charged her to look after, and least of all the children she liked was Jude. 

Naturally, Mrs. Bertram was not forthcoming with the description of the woman who had abandoned her. All she would say was that she was not tall, she was of middling age, not strikingly handsome, and that she had blonde hair and fashionable shoes. She also enjoyed adding that the woman probably saw in Jude the same strangeness that she herself had noted on first meeting the child. Mrs. Bertram wasn't a particularly mean and wretched woman, but it was clear that she would have preferred to be anywhere other than in the midst of a throng of children that she had no clue how to deal with. 

Mrs. Bertram had often remarked that Jude was a "strange one." And she had to admit, she did have a penchant for making bizarre things happen at the most unfortunate times. It amused the other children, but it unnerved Mrs. Bertram. Her "strangeness" did little to raise Jude in Mrs. Bertram's esteem, therefore she had little to thank the woman for—except, maybe for teaching her to read—and so, felt no remorse for leaving the old woman and making her way to the city five years later. She left with a boy she believed was named Tommy for a companion, not exactly to look for her lost family, but just to look for something. She couldn't have said what she was looking for at the time, just some clue as to who and what she was.

The two children entered into the throngs of London. She and Tommy lived by picking the pockets of the resident and tourist population of the city. Jude was much more skilled at this occupation than her companion and was not surprised one day to see him grabbed by a sharp-eyed bobby. Poor Tommy had probably gone back to Basingstoke or to one of the London facilities for children—there was no way for her to ever know for sure. It was for the best maybe, as Jude was much better at working alone. She haunted the well-known tourist spots and the heavily trafficked areas of the city. Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Cathedral: she knew all the prime locations and peak times of visitation within a year of roaming that city shrouded in fog. She knew the city inside and out. Places she'd seldom visit were few and there were good reasons not to explore their secrets further. One such place was Hyde Park, or any other large public park, for that matter: these places were heavily populated most times, but they were also areas concentrated with police officers—not the sort of company she liked to encounter.

She also liked to visit Charing Cross Road, yet she seldom had the courage to employ her skills here. The crowd here was far different from other parts of London. Sure, there were still the typical tourists and locals as were found in other areas of the city. But here Jude had discovered an oddity: other residents were present here, only they looked like they belonged to a London of another time. She explored this street and found a strange and dingy-looking pub with an ancient sign that proclaimed the establishment to be the Leaky Cauldron. It was not the sort of place that attracted the tourists, nor even the regular sort of locals. The crowd that thronged in and out of the place was usually dressed in strange attire and most patrons wore cloaks and robes in the manner of characters in a storybook. She would spend hours watching the passersby and noticed that all the normally dressed people seemed not even to see the place, nor the odd sort of people that issued forth from the pub. When she had nothing better to do, she would come down here and watch the people ebb and flow through the dingy wooden doors of the establishment. They somehow seemed beyond her skills of a pickpocket, and some were of a slightly rougher-looking nature than she usually sought out, so she always contented herself with merely watching them.

As Jude walked the streets of London, killing the time until her train departed, her feet unwittingly lead her in the direction of this very street. Of course, now she was aware that the strange pub, the Leaky Cauldron, was the entrance to Diagon Alley, the wizards' bit of London. She had discovered this fact when she was seven, one night when two men dressed in black had appeared out of the shadows, seemingly from nowhere. 

_No one had ever marked her presence in that street before tonight. As the two men approached, Jude got to her feet so she would be ready to fly from danger if she found it necessary. She noticed that these two men were of the strange sort of visitor to that street. The two who approached her seemed apprehensive, as if her presence there was suspicious and a cause for concern. _

_"How much did you hear?" the man on the left side said to Jude, who stood frozen to the spot. Under the man's hood, she could see pale cold eyes and blonde, almost white hair. When Jude did not answer, the man became angry and, reaching into his robes produced what looked like a wand. Like a magician in a magic show._

_"A wand?" thought the child absently at the ridiculous scene she was presented with. It  seemed comical to her, yet something inside her implored her to see this man and the odd weapon in his grasp as a valid threat._

_ "I asked you a question, child." The man pointed the wand at Jude but was interrupted by the person at his side. The second man cautioned the other in a hissing whisper._

_ "Lucius, patience. Let me speak to her." The sound of this voice sent chills down her spine, yet she was determined not to betray to the men any of the fear that was building up inside of her. _

_"Come here, child," The second man hissed and beckoned her to cross the four or five feet that separated her from the two of them. _

_She met his gaze evenly—his eyes were an unnatural and glowing red, yet the stare was cold and calculating. She could not move. She was petrified by fear. She hoped that someone would pass by and frighten the two specters back into the shadows, but it was quite late and any hope of such a welcome interruption was dim. She broke the stare after what seemed like a small eternity when she discerned movement from the other man. The hand that held the wand was raised quickly and leveled in her direction. As if by instinct, she raised her hand and willed the wand away from the man and into her own hand—instinct, how else would she account for it later? She had no inkling of what a wand was used for nor did she know how to use one. However, she didn't want the man, who knew what he held and how to use it, to have it. She hadn't a clue as to how she had managed to take the object from the man without crossing the distance between them and physically plucking it from his grasp—it just happened. "It just happened" was something she remembered saying quite often to an exasperated Mrs. Bertram._

_When the child looked back at the second man, he was, to her surprise, laughing. The other, whose wand she now held in her own hand, did not find the situation amusing._

_ "Bested by a toddler, Lucius?" The man laughed in a manner entirely devoid of mirth._

_ "That was…impossible!" the man gasped. The one with the mirthless laugh chuckled again._

_ "No, not impossible, my friend." He looked at Jude with an appraising eye. "Not impossible, as this child has demonstrated. Sorcerers and Sorceresses still exist. They are not a myth," the man explained, casting a covetous glare at the child. "Just extremely rare. And for one to show talent at such a young age…" _

_The man took a step closer to Jude, but she did not move an inch. "How old are you child?" He asked._

_"Seven," she replied proudly, then added a hesitant, "I think." The man took another step forward._

_"You think? You do not even know your own age?" he interrogated, growing more interested in the curious creature by the second._

_ Fearing she had already given too much information away, the child pressed her lips together and gave the man a skeptical glare. She was clutching the wand tightly with both hands, not pointing it at any particular target or intending to use it at any point. It merely served to steady her shaking hands. _

_"Where are your parents?" the man asked, beginning to sense the truth of the matter. "A child like you should not be wandering the streets at night. You never know who you might run into." _

_His attempt to frighten the child was ineffectual—at least she did not visibly betray any sign of being frightened of him. He took another step closer to the child, and still she did not flinch. Jude had begun think that she was not afraid of the man any longer, just…curious. _

_"You have no parents, am I right?" the man asked. _

_Jude shook her head, no longer hesitating to answer his questions, for she longed to ask questions of her own. He took yet another step in her direction. _

_"What were you doing here in the dark, outside this hole-in-the-wall pub?" _

_She was mildly shocked that he knew about the pub that she was beginning to think was a figment of her imagination._

_"I was watching the…" She didn't know what to call them and, in any case, did not want to offend the man. "The funny people."_

_ He laughed another cold, joyless laugh. "Funny people? Why I, and my friend," he indicated his partner with a motion of his head, "and you are those 'funny people.'"_

_ This revelation astounded Jude, and the result was that she was more curious than ever. _

_"We are like those people and yet we are not like them. They have not realized that true power comes from purity, of mind and of blood. I could teach you about what you are—help you to develop your talent. You could be great—I could teach you many things. Would you like to learn more about who you are?"_

_The man played on the child's deepest desires—to know who and what she was. Her attention was riveted on the man who held such answers within his grasp. His companion had silently advanced while his leader addressed the child who had stolen his wand. He stood a little behind and to the right. As his Master concluded his speech, he saw the child's arms slack as the wand tumbled from her fingers and landed on the wet pavement at her feet. The child nodded her head, her eyes still captivated by the man who held the answer to her every question. _

_"Come," he ordered triumphantly as he turned on his heels. The child followed the man obediently into the shadows of the dark alleyway. The man with blonde-white hair bent to retrieve his weapon from the ground and turned to dutifully pursue his Master and the child._

As Jude walked the spot where she had first met the man that turned her from a mere thief into a murderer, she involuntarily shuddered. He had never wanted to teach her to become great, He just wanted to ensure that she would never become greater than He was. He had never intended to teach her to use her talent. No, He intended to make her a mindless disciple willing to do His bidding. He didn't even hold the answers to the questions that had for so long eluded her. All He had were various tricks and manipulations. She unconsciously tugged her coat sleeve further over her left wrist. That man—Voldemort—had taught her merely to hate.

 "If He were here to see me now," she mused inwardly, glancing down at her faded jeans and trainers, her coat buttoned up against the sharp wind of an oncoming storm—the picture of a Muggle—she had to smile.

"He'd probably kill me on the spot." She stuffed her chin into the collar of the coat and turned her steps back to the station. 

As she passed by the waterfront, she produced from her pocket the slender wooden object that she had extracted from her luggage. Her very own wand—not a necessary object for a person of her skill, but because of her involvement in the Dark Arts, the Ministry had decreed that she was not allowed to practice magic without a wand—and even then, she was only allowed to practice magic in the classroom. Her wand was Yew and Unicorn Hair, nine inches long. Yew—associated with the Dark Arts, graveyards, and the very same wood used in Voldemort's deadly wand. Unicorn Hair—from a magical creature that represented all that was pure and good and innocent.

 "I guess I was a contradiction from the start." 

With little ceremony, she flung the bit of wood over the railing of the bridge and into the Thames.  

"Enough with reflection," she thought. She had a train to catch.

***

Just as she had predicted, the sky released its hoarded stores minutes before the train pulled into the station. She stepped off the train and gathered her things—which was not much, considering she had left behind all things magical. She took a deep breath as she walked out into the rain. She did not have an umbrella and thought briefly of casting an Impermeable Charm on her coat, but remembered that she would no longer allow herself to use such abilities. Not knowing really where to go, she figured the first thing she needed to do was simply to get out of the pounding rain. An indeterminable amount of time had passed since she had left the station, but she continued to walk in search of something or some place she really couldn't put her finger on.

Upon informing Dumbledore and Professor Snape of her plans to leave the world of magic behind her and start her life anew, they had made every effort dissuade her from her choice. She had refused, of course, her Headmaster's offer of a position at the school—the staff at Hogwarts, especially the Headmaster, had already done so much for her and she refused to accept any such charity. She was determined to live the rest of her life as a Muggle and with as little assistance from others as possible. She had accepted Dumbledore's aid in securing her acceptance to Cambridge, where a great friend and colleague of his was on the admissions board of King's College. It had helped that she was an excellent student and her marks were among the highest in her class—in a magical school however. His help in acquiring her acceptance, therefore, was absolutely necessary. All other aid was declined. 

Dumbledore had, then, sincerely wished her luck in her pursuits and hoped for her success in her new endeavor. Professor Snape, however, had cautioned her when he had learned of her plan to leave. He thought that she was merely running from her problems instead of facing them head on. He warned her that if she tried to run for too long, the problem would only grow. And problems always caught up—you could never leave them behind. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that this was good advice from someone who knew what he was talking about. Yet she had made up her mind, and for the sake of her very sanity, she had to try and make a go of whatever new world awaited her. In the end, he had finally relented.

 "I hope that your problems get lost along the way to catching up to you, then." She could still hear his words and, then, she missed her family, her friend. She shut her eyes against the rain and closed her fingers around the charm dangling from the silver chain around her neck. He had given it to her the night before she left. The star that was shaped like compass points was actually a Portkey. Not a typical Portkey however, this one required a short incantation to activate its magic. All she would have to say while holding that charm was "Domi"—home—and she would be there. She opened her eyes and reluctantly released the chain. She picked up her bags and continued to trudge down the road.

She could not recall what time it had been when she left the station, but it was now getting dark and the rain had not relented.

"Eden Street," read a street sign above her head. "Sounds great, let's go." She urged herself on to the small bakery on the corner of Paradise. The lights were ablaze within and it looked pleasant and dry inside the café. As she shook the water from her coat, she glimpsed a sign in the window. As she opened the door, she noticed a sign proclaiming 'Help Wanted.'

An elderly woman bustled over to her and held the door open for her while she shoved her bags into a corner and removed her coat.

"Poor dear, still raining, I see," exclaimed the old woman with a shake of her white head. Jude looked down at the floor where she was leaving a rather large puddle. 

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I saw your Help Wan—."

 But she was interrupted by the old woman who took Jude's coat from her hands and hung it on a hook behind the door, beckoning her in. "Yes, I have been looking for someone to help me out around this place." She motioned for Jude to take a seat. "Are you a student here?" she inquired as she poured two cups of coffee and seated herself across from her.

 "Yes, I am starting in the fall. I just arrived in town and I am looking for a job." She immediately liked the old woman for her frank manner of speaking and demeanor.

"Are you any good at learning?" The woman asked, putting Jude off a little at the unexpectedness of this question. 

"I'm great at learning, if you're good at teaching," Jude answered truthfully with a good-natured smile. She could learn anything from watching someone.

 "Well, I can tell that your friendly, my regular customers would love you. And I like you already." She winked at Jude and smiled. She was just what Jude imagined a grandmother would be. "You're hired, dear. And what did you say your name was?" Smiling, the old lady extended her hand.

 "I'm Jude," she replied, taking the woman's proffered hand.

 "I'm Adda. And where did you say you were staying at?" the old woman asked, eyeing Jude's soaked bags piled in the corner. 

"I…I haven't found a place yet—I'm still looking," Jude replied, a little embarrassed.

"Well then, dear, aren't you in luck—I also have a room for rent above the shop. I'd love to have you. The room's not much, but that means the rent's not much—just a couple of bedrooms to let and a common room with a small kitchen. You can have the last room. That is, however, if you don't mind sharing the space with a chap already living there—in the other room, I mean. Oh, and he has a dog. He's a student as well, goes to Trinity College. His roommate kicked him out. His girlfriend moved in and hates dogs." She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Jude did the same, more as an excuse to hide the astonishment at the length of her sentence. She wondered how such a feat was possible without drawing a single breath. 

After a lengthy conversation consisting of Adda asking questions about her newest tenant and employee's past, and Jude doing her best to evade such questions, the old woman rose from the table and removed the cups. 

"You must be exhausted, dear. I'll let you get some rest. We can settle everything tomorrow after you've had a decent night's sleep. Here's your key and it's top of the landing. Your room is on the…" She gave a little thought to this next part. "Left, I believe." 

Jude thanked Adda for her extreme and unexpected kindness, and made her way up to the room. She was surprised at how smoothly every anxiety she had about life on her own had been put to rest. Hopefully she would be able to have that proverbial and elusive 'decent night's sleep' that Adda had mentioned. Sleep had never come easily to Jude before, but maybe her luck was about to change and she could just forget about everything long enough to drift off. She could use a good rest.


	2. Content

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and various publishers including, but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement was intended and no money is being made from this innocent little bit of fiction. Characters that you do not recognize are my property and if you see them wandering around, please send them home.

Author's Note: Please read author's note from previous chapter, as it is integral to understanding this story. This is an Alternate Universe involving a character of my own creation, chronicling the events spanning the years 1971 (the year Jude was born) to the present (includes the plot of Rowling's books and my own plot after _Goblet of Fire_). Thanks for reading and I hope I have assuaged all confusion. 

Chapter Two: Content

'That undisturbed song of pure content…' John Milton, A Solemn Music, Line 6 

The late afternoon sun was slowly sinking over the horizon, depriving the town only of its light—its warmth had failed to penetrate the biting cold of the day. She raised her shoulders to her ears in an attempt to shield them from the biting wind. Her gloved hands were balled up and shoved into the pockets of her coat, and her chin was buried in the folds of her woolen scarf. Still, the relentless wind pursued her down the empty street. It was late December and most of the students had gone home for Christmas or were off on holiday. The cold was keeping everyone else off of the street. It wasn't as cold here as it had been this time of year at Hogwarts, she remembered. Still the wind was bitter cold and she hurried on to her destination—a cozy and warm café by the name of Adda's on the corner of Elm and Eden Street. It was a Friday night, and even with the lack of a student population milling about the town, Adda still expected to pull in a descent-sized crowd of locals, and Adda would need her help. 

                The sky was heavy with the puffy clouds that foretold of snow, although none of the fluffy white stuff had fallen yet today. She had been making her way back from the Chapel at King's College, where she had been enjoying the sublime voices of a choir, as they raised their melodious offerings to heaven. This was one of her favorite pastimes: playing the part of a hidden spectator along with the heralding angels that adorned the vaulted ceiling of the chapel while the choir rehearsed. The ethereal music filling the beautiful spaces of the fifteenth century chapel created a small Eutopia, in which she was allowed to forget, at least for an hour, everything that she wanted to forget. Unfortunately, that hour had ended forty minutes ago. She had never succeeded in finding such a sanctuary at Hogwarts—often times, she had to rely on books read in any quiet corner she could discover to distract her mind. She was thankful, still, for the solitude that had prompted her to read so much—the stores of knowledge that she had gleaned from those books had been of infinite help to her. And now, it was even her field of study at Cambridge, where for four months now she had been excelling in Literature. 

 She rounded the corner and was greeted by the golden glow of the lights in the windows. She smiled gratefully and pulled open the door.

A dog barked in salutation and ran excitedly to greet her.

 "Hullo, Darcy." She patted the black-and-tan hound's head. The dog contentedly resumed its seat on a warm rug. Jude pulled off her coat, scarf and gloves and replaced the lot with an apron.

"Jude, what are you doing back so early, dear?" Adda called to her from over the counter. The café was deserted except for a couple in the far corner. "You don't have to be back for another hour." Jude smiled and walked over to Adda, grabbed a towel to clean the tables.

 "I was bored, and it's ruddy cold," she replied, wiping down the first table. The truth of the matter was that she'd had enough of thinking. She wanted to be busy, to use her hands, to occupy her mind in some other way than brooding. 

 "And you just couldn't stay away from me, isn't that right, Love—don't lie, now." A shaggy, brown head popped up from behind a pile of sound equipment and flashed Jude a rakish smile.

 "Right, Rhys," Jude laughed as she swatted the man with her towel. "I couldn't bear to be away for another minute," she sighed over dramatically. 

Rhys chuckled and resumed setting up for the night's performance. Rhys Mallory was Jude's roommate and friend—a musician who played most Friday nights at Adda's. He played his guitar at other venues around the small college town, but this was by far his favorite spot. He also worked for Adda when he was not playing, running deliveries for the elderly woman for next to nothing. A selfless act, no doubt for he didn't need the money. He enjoyed helping Adda out. And Adda frequently teased Jude that Rhys got a bit more from hanging around the shop than just the boy-scout satisfaction of humoring an old woman. Jude would simply blush and shake her head, denying it all.

"So, you coming with me to the Free Press to cheer the mates on after my sets or do I have to beg you again? You know you can't pass up beer and rugby!" Rhys called to Jude with a guitar pick protruding from his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at Jude in an imploring—and rather attractive—manner. After no response from Jude, he began to sing. "Oh, come on Jude, don't be a dull prude. I'm a groovy dude, so come and buy me food." Rhys had begun strumming his guitar while fabricating the lines of a song by which to induce Jude to accompany him to the local—the Free Press—after his gig. Jude could only laugh—Rhys was always making up odd, asinine little songs, some of which he actually had the nerve to play in front of an audience. One of her favorites was 'The Blue Plastic Cup In Which Resides My Soul'. Jude had to admire his easy confidence in himself—which sometimes resembled mild conceit rather closely.

"If Adda doesn't need the help." Jude resumed wiping the tables down. Rhys raised an inquiring brow in Adda's direction, enlisting her aid.

"Oh, you know well enough I can handle this place on my own," Adda consented and smiled as Rhys winked at her. "You don't need my permission. Go, have a good time." Jude's wry smile in his direction was his assurance that she would not put up a fight. 

When she had first met Rhys and his beloved Darcy, she immediately fell into a comfortable and easy relationship with both as a friend, co-worker and roommate. She did almost everything with Rhys—they went to the same pubs, enjoyed walking through the town with Darcy, standing on the Silver Street Bridge and mercilessly berating the boaters—mostly aristocratic males, cocky and arrogant—as they did a poor job of navigating their vessels downstream. 

Naturally, Jude found Rhys handsome and absolutely suited to her tastes in every way. However, she had decided that no matter what inclination she may feel toward Rhys, she would never allow their relationship to move beyond the realm of friendship. She could never tell him the truth about her—about her past. And she could not enter into a serious relationship with someone who didn't even really know who and what she was. 

Within the first month of their meeting, it was clear to Jude that Rhys was as much attracted to her as she was to him, and she couldn't guess the reason for that in the slightest. He had, on several occasions, attempted to persuade her to become closer than a friend. But she could not allow that to happen—for both of their sakes. He would have to be content with her friendship—that was all that she had to offer him. To her relief, he had accepted this, and they had settled into a comfortable relationship as the best of friends.

***

The crowd had poured in, as predicted—although significantly smaller due to the weather. It had indeed begun to snow, but not hard enough to keep even the most reclusive hermit home on a Friday night. A few students had, as had Rhys and Jude, remained in town for the holidays. Rhys, like Jude, had nowhere else to go. This was their home now. He had told her, soon after their meeting, that he had lost his parents at the age of eleven and had been raised by his grandfather, who had also passed on a few years ago. Darcy and Adda had become his family—and Jude was now included. However, Jude could not think of anywhere else she would rather be than here and she was sure that Rhys was equally content not to have anywhere else to spend his holidays.

After Rhys had played numerous songs—old favorites and new creations—and after Jude and Adda had served an indeterminable amount of coffee, the crowd began to thin and closing time approached. Friday nights when Rhys played at Adda's were always crowded. Rhys had numerous fans who were exceedingly fond of his humorous methods of composition—mostly girls with limited amounts of interest in music and much more interest in a certain dashing musician. Still, he was talented and drew in a good-sized crowd of people who were actually there to enjoy his music. 

As the last couple filtered through the door, Rhys had finished packing away the rest of his equipment and bent to receive his praise from Darcy. The dog responded enthusiastically to her owner's voice, licking his face in happy delight.

"You enjoyed my songs, didn't you, darling?" he cooed to his dog. 

"No, actually," Jude interrupted the touching scene, "she told me yesterday that she despises overconfident, under talented guitarists. She prefers classical cellists." 

Rhys mimicked pulling a large knife from his chest and looked at Jude with sorrow-filled eyes. "Here, I believe this is yours." He mimed handing her the invisible weapon. "A classical cellist—please. My doggy-woggy is no poufster!" he exclaimed, ruffling Darcy's fur. He refused to take the bate in Jude's statement.

"No, she's no poufster, but you are!" she teased, while removing her apron and pulling on her coat, winding her scarf around her neck. "Doggy-woggy?" She said, raising her eyebrows. She wished desperately that she could pull off the one eyebrow thing that was so handsomely executed by Rhys, but that skill was beyond her.

"I'm no poufster!" he retorted indignantly while tugging on his coat and hat. He grabbed Darcy's leash off of the coat rack and clasped it to her collar. "No, I'm just three years old." He grinned like a misbehaving child. 

"Tell me about it," Jude said, rolling her eyes and reaching for the door handle. "Be back soon, Adda!" she yelled to the back of the store where the old woman had retreated after seeing her last customers to the door. 

***

The Free Press was a local's pub located a block from Adda's and behind the Police Station. Jude came here most late nights with Rhys—after his gigs at various bars around town like the Anchor, the Mill and others. She loved his company: they seemed to share the same love of people watching—which was merely making fun of everyone whose misfortune it was to pass within their sight. The rich and cocky chaps around school were their favorite targets. These guys would show up in whatever pub Rhys and Jude were at and try their luck with every girl in sight. Some were quite good at the game, but most were hopelessly wretched at it—yet both were equally fun to laugh at. They also loved rugby and never missed an opportunity to cheer their boys on over a pint.

Rhys opened the door for Jude and Darcy, who entered and shook the snow from their coats. Jude loosened the scarf around her neck and led Darcy to a table in the corner while Rhys went to fetch the beers. 

"Hullo, Gabe!" Rhys greeted the barkeep like an old friend—which was exactly what he was. "Two," he said and Gabe handed him two glasses of dark brown liquid. 

"Jude, here then?" Gabe asked and Rhys nodded. "Tell 'er, 'Hullo' from me. And that your boys don't stand a chance tonight—not against these chaps." Gabe shoved his towel in the direction of the television. "Brutal, these boys are." He returned to wiping the bar down while watching the two teams run head first into one another in a battle for a small, brown ball. 

"Thanks," Rhys mumbled, equally enthralled in the screen as he tried to make his way back to Jude, beer in hand, without looking at where he was going. 

Jude took a seat in her usual booth while Darcy curled up at her feet, relishing the warmth of the familiar pub. She hadn't been there for five seconds before a dashing blond in a rugby jersey and brown trousers confidently strode over to her and flashed her a smile. 

"Saw you from across the room," the man said to Jude and stooped by her seat. He reached a hand out to pat Darcy on the head and she accepted the attention without discrimination. "Nice dog you've got here." 

"Oh," she thought, "the 'I'm interested in your dog' angle—how original."

"I'm Jeff, and you are?" he directed this question to Darcy.

"Wow, you gotta hand it to him," she mused, very diverted by this unexpected amusement, "I'll bet anything he prepared this one ahead of time." She only wished that Rhys could be here to partake in the enjoyment. "Her name is Darcy," she conceded finally, an incredulous smirk crossing her lips.

"Darcy, what a lovely name." He complemented the indifferent dog at Jude's feet. "Well, you have a very charming owner, Darcy. Your very lucky." The blonde smiled up at Jude with a practiced look of suavity.

"Thanks!" Rhys said, having come up behind the man without drawing his notice. "I must say you are quite charming yourself." The man jumped to his feet and, startled, turned to face Rhys as Jude attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker. 

"Oh, so she's yours then." The man tried to regain his composure. 

"Yup. She's mine all mine," He said with a lopsided grin that put any hopes of competition from the man's head. He set the beers on the table and took a seat.  "Have a drink with us, mate. We could chat about dogs." He was shameless.

"Well, I would, but…I have to go." He smiled awkwardly and turned on his heels and fled. 

"Aw. You scared him away, Rhys. I was having fun with him." Jude pretended to pout. "He was the best one I've seen in here so far. You should have heard him. He could have given you lessons." She smiled good-naturedly at her friend.

"Heard, 'im, Love. He said I was charming." He took a long swig from his glass. 

"You've been accused of worse." She smiled and took a drink. 

They both settled into the cozy booth to watch their boys battle with ruthless bullies who used every dirty trick in the book. She thought it very odd that she should love to watch rugby as much as she did. During her years at school she'd never followed the most popular sport known to her classmates—Quidditch. She'd never attended a game, and wasn't even sure of how to play the sport. She knew it was like football on brooms—sort of. Her presence at the game was never missed—and she'd rather read or explore the grounds without the interruptions of the hoards of other students around the castle. Plus, she would not have felt in the least bit comfortable being surrounded by scores of children who taunted her on a regular basis—in an overly rowdy environment, nonetheless. 

But here, with Rhys and Darcy, watching her team mercilessly whomp these Nancies at rugby was more than comfortable and familiar. She loved her new life and it made the separation from the select few at Hogwarts who had actually cared for her bearable. As she watched him, enthralled in the game, she wanted to tell him this. To let him know how much he meant to her. Just exactly what he meant to her. He was her salvation. Yet she couldn't. How on earth does one go about disclosing something like this, she mused as the boys took possession of the ball. "Rhys, you'll never believe this, but I went to school in a castle. Yeah, I learned magic there. Oh, and before that…" she thought. Yes, pleasant pub conversation, that was. He'd probably suggest she check into a mental ward. 

Still, he didn't need to know. Not now. Maybe not ever. She never wanted to have to explain her life to anyone else. She was done with that. This was a new start. For her and for him. He'd told her only a bit of his past, and she didn't push the issue. It seemed that neither of them wanted to remember who they were. And that was just fine with her. To her, he was perfect. More than perfect. And she was fine with the way things were between them. This was more than she could have ever asked for. Definitely more than she deserved. But as she looked at him, she was hit with the realization that even if she didn't deserve more than this cozy friendship, he did. And that realization brought the familiar ache to her chest, constricting, like she couldn't breathe. She wanted to be selfish for once in her life. She wanted him with her always, never needing to reveal all of her dirty secrets to him. She wanted everything to stay like this, this blissful moment, forever. Just friends watching a game, drinking a pint—nothing scary, nothing painful, nothing to feel guilty over. If nothing, from here to the end of her life, were to change, she believed she could be happy for once. 

"What's the matter, Love?" Rhys asked curiously, noticing her distracted, tense silence. 

Quickly she brought her attention back to him. Shaking her head and affecting an unconcerned smile, she answered, "Nothing…just thinking." "Oh yeah? How's that going?" he jabbed, laughing. 

"Ha, ha," she mocked him incredulously. 

He put an arm lazily around her shoulders in a conciliatory manner. "What're you thinking about?" 

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Liar," he said, amused. "You were thinking about something."

She wrinkled her brow and frowned at him. "Oh, yeah? And you're some kind of authority on me?"

"Love, I don't think someone like that exists. You're still the enigma you were when I met you. You're safe." He took another drink and looked at her seriously. "You know how I know you were thinking of something? You were frowning again. You always do that, you know." 

"Do I?" she said, uninterested, wanting to change the subject. 

"Yep," he answered casually. "So what was it?"

"Nothing…just things I'd rather forget, alright?" she said tensely. 

He smiled, hugging her closer. "Then forget it," he whispered against her cheek. 

She smiled, grateful. 

"I wonder sometimes," he said cautiously, not wanting to drive away her rare smile. "Are you happy?" 

She looked up at him sharply. "Of course. The happiest I've ever been in my entire life…why?" Her heart was racing and she couldn't understand why. She was alarmed at the question for more reasons than one. 

He shrugged simply. "Don't know…sometimes you just seem…distant, that's all. And you frown a lot."

Her shoulders lost their tension and she relaxed against him. "I know. I can't help it. I've had more practice frowning than smiling." She looked up at him reluctantly. "Are you happy?" 

He smiled. "Now that's a silly question, Love. A bit of a projectionist, are we? Can't stand the attention?"

"No, I just wanted…"

"Yes. I'm happy, Jude. I've got my two best friends right here, a pint in front of me and my boys are finally on the win. A guy couldn't get any happier." 

She nodded. Yes, that was pretty much her sentiments exactly. But for some reason, the smile on her face would not stay. It felt terrifyingly temporary, her little bit of heaven. She knew it was absurd to expect disaster at every turn of the road, but she couldn't help it. 

As they walked home, the snow drifted silently to the earth, dampening the sound around them. It was late, cold and silent—a crystalline, perfect world. A sense of pure content, a satisfaction that she had never felt before this moment, alien and strange, enveloped her. She watched Darcy strain at her lead, tugging Rhys in a zig-zagged, erratic path, chasing the snowflakes that danced on the December air. Rhys laughed and egged her on, just as enamored of the snowfall as his dog, and clearly pleased that she was having a good time. She watched them both with unparalleled appreciation and a realization entered her mind that made her smile. These two, Rhys and his beloved Darcy, and Adda in her cozy bakery, were her entire world. This was her home now, her family. This was her Paradise.


	3. The Girl Next Door

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original characters and material are the property of the author. 

Author's Note: All lengthy passages in _italics _are dreams and/or remembrances. This style will be maintained throughout the story. 

Chapter Three: The Girl Next Door

_'And any time you feel the pain, _

_Hey Jude, refrain,_

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulder,_

_For, well, you know that it's a fool_

_Who plays it cool_

By making the world a little colder' 

_The Beatles, 'Hey Jude'_

_                Side by side, the man and child entered the quaint little cottage. They hadn't bothered to knock on the door, for they were uninvited guests—yet, expected, nonetheless. The door was no obstacle, even though it had been locked by means Muggle and magical—not an obstacle, of course, to Him. Although He'd made only a few of these visits as of late—He had let His minions handle that—He felt that this visit ought to be paid in person. It would also be a golden opportunity to test His little charge. _

_                With the door in shards behind them, they advanced on a man with unruly ebony locks and round, rather bookish-looking glasses with a wand in his right hand raised stubbornly at the unwanted solicitors. The child stared at the man with curiosity—a blank look of mild interest diffused over her face. Her companion standing on her left was hidden within the folds of a black cloak, yet a cold and pitiless laugh betrayed to His host His identity. His face showed less curiosity and more seething hatred. _

_                The cloaked man emitted a mocking laughter as the man threw himself in front of a flame-haired woman holding a small child, begging them to make there escape while he bravely held off their assailants. The woman ran up a flight of stairs—the only exit being blocked by the cloaked man and child—clutching her screaming infant, leaving her husband alone to face the man they'd tried to run and hide from for so long._

_                Before the woman had reached the landing, the cloaked figure had relieved the man of his weapon, which He cast aside in the rubble of the demolished door. _

_"It does no good to run, Potter. You will die, as will your son and your wife. You know this, and I know this. Your bravery does you little credit—yet it makes killing you all the more pleasurable." The cloaked man hissed the words as He leveled His own deadly wand in the man's direction. The man stood rooted to the spot, but his eyes wandered from the man with the cold, yet flaming eyes, to the sandy-haired child, who stared up at him bemusedly from the shrouded figure's right hand side. The child, with her shortly bobbed hair and plain black robes, looked like a student obediently observing a demonstration. _

_                The man lowered His wand and turning to the child, spoke. "Child, I give the duty to you. Kill him." The man in the thick, black cloak nodded in the direction of the now defenseless man who continued to stare at the child, not with fear but with astonishment. He handed the child His wand._

_                By the look on the dark-haired man's face, it was clear that he was not truly afraid of this child—he knew what was coming and knew that there was nothing he could do to escape it. The child raised her left hand obediently at the astonished man. She raised her Master's wand. The figure at her side merely watched with His arms crossed, looking on with the pride of a tutor watching His prodigy perform an especially difficult task. She had done this complicated curse before—it was not as complicated as it seemed, but she had not actually used it on a person before, just rats, and the like. However, she was sure she could do it, and above all else, she did not want to displease her Master. She leveled her eyes at the man—a cruelly blank stare—and cleared her mind. If she thought about what she was preparing to do, she might lose courage and fail to follow through on her Lord's orders. This man had done nothing wrong as far as she was concerned, yet it was her Master's will that he should die—so die he would. This man did not matter—no one mattered if her Lord had decided it should be so._

_                Her expression remained stoic as she spoke the fatal words. "Avada Kedavra." As the man fell to the ground, she did not note the reaction of her Master to her obedient act, nor did she hear praises. All sounds and sights seemed dull, and time seemed to slow from seconds to eternities. She stared at the crumpled form on the ground. The moment the curse hit its intended target, the child felt a shock that penetrated to her very soul. She had felt the life being ripped irrevocably from a man who had never harmed her and had hardly put up a fight—a man who had sacrificed himself for his wife and child. She had taken a life and she knew at that moment that she would never be the same. She could not explain why her Master had the right to decide the life or death of a man, or even why it was so easy to end another's existence. She only knew that it would never happen by her hand again._

_                "Come." The man's beckoning voice roused her from her state of shocked silence. Taking the wand from her slackened fingers, He began to slowly ascend the stairs, stepping over the man as if he were not even there. She lifted her eyes from the body on the rug to the landing. Her Master was walking slowly and silently, like a stalking cat—He was on the hunt. He would kill the woman and her child, just like she had killed their husband and father. The child ran up the stairs as fast as she could. She had to stop Him from murdering that woman and her innocent baby._

_                The cloaked figure had stalked into a room leading off of the hall. She immediately heard the woman's pleading voice. The woman was begging her Master to have mercy on her child. Mercy was a concept He had never bothered with—it gained nothing and made one appear weak. He leveled the wand at the woman who had placed her child on the bed behind her. She was standing fierce guard over the infant, yet she held no wand and knew that she provided the child with minimal defense. The blonde girl stood in the doorway, not knowing what to say or do to convince her Lord—Voldemort—to spare these two. He had never spared a life before. Still she had to try—the man she murdered begged her in his last looks to save his family._

_                "My Lord, please," the child interrupted. The woman and the cloaked man turned to look at her. "Please don't," she pleaded, moving closer to her Master. Her imploring look met only a cruel look of determination. _

_                "Silence, child!" Voldemort commanded His pupil. He turned back to the woman and raised His wand. _

_                The child moved to place herself in front of her Master, between Him and the woman. "Please, they don't have to die, I mean, there must be another way…" the child attempted to persuade the implacable man. This did not serve to soften His resolve as much as it had fanned His anger. He grabbed the child by the front of her robes, drawing her closer as He hissed an enraged reply._

                "You are silent when I say you are silent." He dropped her and leveled His cold eyes on her imploring face. Before she had time to back away out of His reach, He struck her hard across the face. As she hit the hard wooden floor, He continued, raising His wand to the woman.  

"And we show mercy to no one." 

The child raised herself enough to see the effects of the terrible words that followed. In a flash of blinding green light the woman dropped to the floor in the same manner the man had minutes earlier, leaving the infant undefended and helpless on the bed. The child got to her knees, but Voldemort had already advanced to the bedside and stood before the baby boy. 

"Avada Kedavra," He hissed and the room was bathed in the wicked green glow.

***

                _"No!" the child screamed as she sprung to her feet_. Jude sat up in bed, panting as if she had just completed her morning jog four times over. She glanced at the clock and sighed. Three-thirty. She had gone to sleep only forty minutes before. She had never been able to sleep easily, the same images replayed in her head, over and over. She could see their faces and hear their voices as if it had happened only moments before—not over seven-and-a-half years ago. Every night since that night, she'd seen the events played out in her dreams. Some nights it came to her mind more violently clear than other nights. The dreams, however, had dissipated in their intensity since her arrival in Cambridge—yet they had not abated in their frequency. Every night she dreaded sleep, and when by sheer necessity she would drift off, the dreams would startle her out of her slumber within a half an hour. 

                As she climbed out of bed, she wondered if she'd been loud enough to wake Rhys. She was amazed that in the eleven months that they had been flat mates, she'd never woken him from his deep slumbers with her loud awakenings. She pulled on a robe and headed for the common room and sat on the battered sofa as she flipped on the television. There was not a wide selection in entertainment in the wee hours of the morning, so she settled for a re-run of _Blind Date_. She tucked her feet under her and brushed the stray sandy locks from her face, placing them securely behind her ears. Only three more hours, and she will have survived yet another night.

***

                "Morning, Love." Rhys greeted Jude with a quick kiss on the top of her head as he came into the bakery. He took a seat opposite her and sipped at a cup of coffee. "Where's Adda gone to this early?" he asked, looking around for the old woman who was usually bustling around the store every morning. 

                "She's delivering an order to the station. You know, I think she has a bit of a crush on Sergeant O'Reily," Jude answered as she continued to flip through the pages of the morning paper. She lowered the paper to take a sip of her dark espresso. Before she returned her gaze to the news, she noticed Rhys studying her intently. "What?" she remarked a bit more impatiently than she meant to.

                "Nothing." He removed his scrutinizing stare. Then, cautiously, he attempted to make known to her why he was staring at her. "It's just that, well, Bloody Hell, Jude—you look terrible." He looked at her with concern. 

                "I didn't get much sleep, that's all." She shrugged and returned to the news.

                "You never get much sleep, Jude." He gave her a knowing smile. "Love, I live with you—did you honestly think that I wouldn't notice?" 

                "Aw, did I wake you?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood of the conversation that, quite frankly, she did not care to be having at the moment.

                "You can't sleep because…" he pressed on. "You have nightmares?" 

                Jude said nothing, pretending not to hear him. She appreciated his concern, but felt that this was none of his business.

                "Come on, Love. You don't expect me to believe that you just can't live without late-night re-runs of _Count Down_ and _Eastenders,_ now do you?"

                Despite her best efforts, she could not hide a half-hearted smile. He always made her feel better about everything. "It's nothing to be worried about, really," she reassured him. "I've had these dreams for years and I've never been good at sleeping. It's just not my thing." She grinned, and to her relief, he laughed. She knew that he would not push the subject further.

                "It's everyone's _thing, _Love," he called to her as she left the table and made her way into the kitchen of the bakery to retrieve a parcel.

                "It's your thing, you mean. I've never met anyone who can sleep twelve hours every single night." She smirked and grabbed a banana as she headed for the door.

                "It's a talent," he replied, picking up the paper that she abandoned. 

                "Watch the store for Adda, okay? I have to deliver this order and then I'm off to class," she instructed, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, and good luck on your exam. Knock that bastard professor on his Nancy arse." He turned to face her, placing his hand over the one she rested on his shoulder. 

                "Thanks," he laughed. "You coming to the Mill, tonight? You didn't forget, did you? Marcus and Lex and I are playing." He raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. "Aw, come on, Love. I know you didn't forget." He frowned in the most pitiable manner he could accomplish.

                "No, of course I didn't forget," she lied. "I'll be over as soon as the shop closes. Shouldn't be too busy."  She smiled and headed for the door. "See you then, I guess?" 

                "Yeah. Don't forget, now." He grinned at her as she walked out the door. He watched her make her way down the street and around the corner. When she was out of sight, he returned to his paper.

***

                As she walked back from her last class, the bright sun of the last days of May fell on her face. She turned to soak up its pleasant warmth. She had successfully completed her first year at King's College and all that was left was the rowdy partying of May Week and the posting of final grades in the Senate house next week. She smiled as she rounded the corner of Elm and Eden Street. The upcoming festivities would allow Rhys and herself plenty of opportunity to ridicule the unsuspecting student population. She wasn't worried about her grades—she had immersed herself in studying as she had done since her very first days at school as a way of escaping from her tormenting thoughts. She looked forward to the break summer would give her, and yet, she dreaded it. Classes were a distraction, if nothing else. Now, she would just have to bury herself in work around the bakery. Rhys was now helping out around the shop more as well, running deliveries for Adda and other tasks that she shouldn't have to tackle at her age. 

                Classes for Rhys at Trinity College were over today, as well. He had been worried about a horrid exam for a wretched professor in one of his various architecture classes. Jude had helped him study and, as far as she could judge, he was more than prepared for this daunting task. He was very bright and intelligent, but the smallest test could throw him into a nervous breakdown, even though he was sure to get the highest marks in the class. 

                Rhys and two of his mates, Lex and Marcus, were booked for the night at the Mill, which expected a sizeable crowd to celebrate the end of classes for most of the colleges around Cambridge. This was an important gig for Rhys, so Jude had little hope of seeing him around the shop, as he would be spending every spare moment with Marcus and Lex preparing their show. Lex was a saxophonist and Marcus played the drums. The three musicians had a penchant for a semi-bluesy form of rock that Jude loved. She wouldn't miss the show for the world because, least of all, it was so important to her best friend. 

                She entered the bakery, sounding the little bell above the door. Darcy bounded over to her, wagging her tail in an excited frenzy. "Adda, I'm taking Darcy for a walk, then I'll be back," Jude shouted to the kitchen. She was answered by a sound of consent from the old woman. She grabbed the leash off the hook by the door and attached it to the dog's collar. The pair then headed out the door and for the open, grassy park of the Midsummer Commons.

                Jude and Darcy exchanged greetings with familiar customers as they crossed the street for the park. She released Darcy from the lead and let her run. Jude found a shaded and grassy spot on which to sit and watch the dog run to greet a group of children. She had been thinking all day on the same subject and had yet to come to a decision. Rhys had been such a good friend to her for the past year—a better friend she could not have asked for, he was really her first real friend at all. She had all that she could want, more than she felt she had a right to ask for. Yet now she wanted to turn all of that on its head. 

                "For what?" she asked herself. "For the off chance that he still wants to be more than friends with you and that he wouldn't mind the fact that you're a witch and a murderer?" She shook her head. It was becoming increasingly harder to pretend that she didn't like Rhys in a manner more than friendly. But why would she give up everything she had now in hopes that he would understand the truth about her. 

                "I could just keep my past to myself, I mean, I could give this a go. Who's to say that we wouldn't annoy the hell out of each other and break up within the first week, without me even needing to open my mouth about anything?" she mused. "I wouldn't have to tell him until it became absolutely necessary. But then, I would have been lying to him the entire time. And I know myself better than anyone—I'd probably run before he had the chance to ask me for the truth." She picked apart a leaf of grass and watched the kids throwing a frisbee for Darcy.

 "He's my best friend and he deserves better than that—better than anything I have to offer," she concluded after a time and rose to her feet, calling Darcy over to her. She and Darcy made their way back to the shop, where Adda was shelving a fresh batch of cookies. Jude had reached a decision, she thought—or maybe she had merely decided not to decide. 

***

"See you in the morning, dear." Adda waved to her as Jude left the shop. She walked down the dark streets toward the river and the Silver Street Bridge. The Mill was on the corner overlooking the river as it slipped silently past its banks. The place was already packed and Rhys and his mates had already finished their first set. 

"Didn't know if you'd make it, Love." Rhys beamed as he caught sight of Jude. He ushered her into a chair at the table his friends occupied. 

"You didn't really think I'd miss this, did you?" She smiled at Rhys, who seemed immensely gratified. She ruffled his curly brown locks in a sisterly fashion and took her seat. 

"We're on in five," said a man Jude recognized as Lex, holding a fistful of mugs. "Drink up quickly, boys." He slammed the mugs down on the table and took a seat. 

"So, how'd the first set go?" Jude turned to Rhys, who was busy draining a glass. 

"Oh, you know," he began. "Same old shite, but I was saving the best for when you got here." He grinned mischievously. Jude wondered what he had up his sleeve, knowing that it was nothing good. "I really need to work on some more stuff for us to play. This crowd doesn't seem to mind, though." He gestured to the throng of partying students celebrating the end of the year. 

Five minutes later, the three were back on stage in front of a cheering crowd. "I have a bit of an old classic for you folks out there," Rhys announced. "The Girl Next Door, by the great Frank Sinatra." It was a rather stunning feat to perform a song that required a full orchestra played only by a solo guitarist, sax and drums. Yet Rhys' smooth voice lent itself amiably to the lyrics. 

The moment I saw her face, I knew she was just my style 

Rhys sang as Jude watched. When his eyes found hers fixed on him, he smiled and winked, then looked away just as quickly. Was he embarrassed? Jude tried not to laugh. She knew that this song was for her, as if in answer to the questions she had been entertaining all day. He still loved her—he always would. The song gave her courage to hope for more. 

After a few more songs, and cheering from the crowd, their second set ended. Rhys made his way back from the bar with two glasses of dark beer. He handed one to Jude as he took a seat. The talk around the table was lively but short, as the musicians were wanted back on stage in ten minutes for their final set. 

Rhys was on stage before much was said between him and Jude about the song. He seemed a little shy around her at the table, and she found this rather—adorable. She listened to Rhys' numbers as she watched him perform. He was so at home on the stage, as if being in front of a crowd was the most natural place for him to be. 

After a song of Rhys' own creation, 'Slipping On a Banana Peel and Falling…Out Of Love,' he introduced the next number. "This is for my best friend, my flat mate, and the biggest damn Beatles fan out there." He smiled in Jude's direction, as she hid her head in her hands. She couldn't complain—he'd given her ample warning. 

"Hey, Jude," Rhys began, as she lifted her head from the table. She smiled wryly at her friend who was now making a spectacle of her. He raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment as she gave him the finger. Their mutual friends around the table were all laughing hysterically as Rhys continued with the embarrassment. "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…"

He smiled at her as she joined in the laughter. Maybe she'd take John, Paul, George, and Ringo's advice. The world was already cold enough without her contributing to the problem. She returned his sweet smile. She was going to take her sad song and make it better.


	4. Easier Said Than Done

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series belong to J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including, but not limited to, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. No copyright infringements were intended and no money is being made from this story—nope, no money at all. All other characters and original situations not brilliant enough to be the property of Ms. Rowling belong to this humble little scribe.

Author's Note: If you have read the author's notes to the previous chapters, you should be having no trouble at all in following this twisted little Alternate Universe. If you are still confused, please feel free to email me with your questions. I hope everyone is enjoying this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Four: Easier Said Than Done

'All I need to make a comedy is a park, a policeman and a pretty girl' Charlie Chaplin 

                The day had dawned sunny and warm—warm for mid-February in England, at least—giving the town of Cambridge respite from the bitter cold and days of endless snow that it had witnessed since November. Rhys wanted to make the most of this opportune weather and, calling Darcy over to where he sat by the window in the small café, attached her lead to her collar. 

                "Want to go to the park, girl?" he asked the excited dog as he pulled his thick coat on over his sweater. As he and Darcy made their way to the park, Rhys could not help but think of Jude. He had noticed that she had seemed different as of late. No, she had been acting differently since he'd sung that song for her at The Mill. Had he scared her away? It didn't seem as if he had—she appeared to be pleased by the move on his part. Yet she had not made any attempt to reaffirm his feelings for her—and this was over six months ago. 

                At the end of the semester last year, he had made an attempt to show Jude, his best friend, that he was still enamored with her. He'd loved her from the moment he met her that morning he'd walked into his kitchen to find her making friends with his dog only to find out that they were to be flat mates. He was a bit defeated, he had to admit, when he'd asked Jude out on a date and was summarily refused. She had told him that she felt the same way about him, but that she could never act on those feelings. Her past was a barrier to their mutual happiness, and he somewhat resented her for not trusting him with her secrets. He couldn't blame her, however, for keeping her secrets to herself when he was keeping just as much, if not more, from her. 

                He knew that she loved him as much as he loved her—she had practically said as much to him. Yet he couldn't fight the feeling that there was a growing distance between them, and he felt responsible for that. He had probably pushed her too hard. She hadn't pushed him away yet, but it seemed that she was in a place that he couldn't follow. He wanted to tell her that nothing she could do or say would make him stop loving her. There wasn't even the remotest possibility of that happening. 

                "C'mon, Darce!" he yelled to his beloved hound as he released her leash. He took off down one of the various winding paths of the park. She bounded along at his side. He needed to run, to pound out his frustration on the frozen ground. He raced along the path fast, trying to outrun the thoughts that raced through his mind. At length, he had to give in to fatigue as the bitter cold air made it impossible for him to continue at that pace. Darcy paused at his side, ready for more excitement. He looked over at his dog—his one constant companion and beloved friend. She never failed to cheer him when he was down. 

                He made a swift movement to grab the dog, but she quickly maneuvered away from her owner. She settled into the snow with her front paws and head resting on the ground, leaving her tail end in the air. Rhys gathered a handful of snow and lobbed it in the hound' s direction. She snapped at the snowball as Rhys laughed at the spectacle. She raced in a circle around him, evading his grasp. After a short chase, he had managed to wrestle the dog to the ground, but he lost the upper hand and Darcy soon had him pinned in the snow, licking his face.

                "Okay, I give Darcy. Let up." He put his hands over his face to impede the dog from further licking him. He shoved Darcy off of and struggled to his feet, brushing the powdery snow from his coat and pants. 

                "Darcy!" he heard a familiar voice call from a distance. Rhys looked up and saw his dog run to greet a woman walking toward him. It was Jude. She smiled and petted the dog as a reward for having come when she called. She looked up and smiled to Rhys as he walked over to where she was standing with Darcy. 

                "Hey, Adda told me that I would find you here," Jude said to Rhys who noticed her look away, rather awkwardly. He knew that she wasn't suddenly acting shy around him, but that she seemed like she wanted to tell him something, but couldn't quite bring herself to do it. Lately, it appeared as if she was trying to build up the courage to tell him something and had failed every time. He didn't want to prod her, but waiting for her to speak in her own time was infinitely frustrating, and he wondered if he would ever find out what had been bothering her for so long. Rhys shoved his hands in his pocket—it was getting colder outside. 

                "What do you say we go back to Adda's, Love? It's getting bloody cold out here." He smiled at her as he put Darcy's leash on her once again. As they walked down the street, Rhys put his arm around Jude, hugged her to him, and kissed her forehead. She smiled, which was a good sign, he thought. Something was not right between them, but all he could do was wait for her to tell him what was wrong and to be there for her until that time. 

***

                Jude loved the snow. She loved the cold—biting cold, cold that numbed the mind and body. As she walked back to the café with Rhys and Darcy, she breathed in deeply the stinging, frigid air and wished that it would freeze her mind to a blissful numbness. Dwelling on the thoughts that she was entertaining was not a good thing. She had been warring with her will and had lost every battle. She had been so close to spilling everything to Rhys several times, knowing that as soon as she told him, he would either abandon her or forgive her. But either way, she would have given up her unbearable burden and she would feel better. Carrying her secret with her, guarding it jealously, she had forged a gap between herself and the one person who mattered to her. Being near him, yet keeping her secret to herself hurt. She didn't want to hurt anymore and hoped the merciless cold would relieve this pain as it had in the past.

                _It had snowed heavily for the past three days. The school grounds were covered in over a meter of crystalline snow and frost, making the Hogwarts castle appear even more magical. The last class was mercifully over, yet the day was not. Jude navigated the cold stone passageways to her dorm room. Thankfully, the common room was deserted and she passed into the Second Year Girls' Dorm without interruption. She grabbed her heavy cloak and scarf off of the back of a chair and headed back out of the room. _

_                As she made her way down a flight of marble stairs, she pulled the cloak on over her uniform woolen sweater and skirt. She wound the green and silver scarf around her neck, but took little care to make sure that it reached the fringe of her shortly bobbed blonde hair. She didn't know where she was going, she just wanted to get away for a little while, until things calmed down—if they would calm down. She doubted they would. She thought she might go to Hagrid's and see Fang. Hagrid never asked too many questions. _

_                Earlier that day, she had been careless. Whether or not from carelessness or simply from tiring of being on her guard all the time, Jude had let a secret slip—a big secret. Now, the entire student population hated her more than they had before—as if everyone's dislike was suddenly validated. In Potions class, she had been paired with Sabine MacDermod, her roommate. It was well known to all, including Jude, that Sabine hated her—it was a hobby, a passion of hers. One of Jude's biggest occupations was taking care not to give Sabine too much ammunition. She mainly tried to avoid her and her two friends and roommates, Adelaide Blake and Marah Talbot, who were partnered together near Jude and Sabine. _

_                The assignment was to create a wakefulness potion. Jude had busied herself with chopping dried Mandrake leaves as Sabine stirred the boiling cauldron. Sabine had not done well in this class for months and had been paired by Professor Snape with Jude, who was by far his best student. Jude did not take this as a complement, but as punishment. Yet, she rolled up the sleeves of her robes and threw herself into the task at hand. As she was chopping the ingredient, she did not notice Sabine's eyes wander to the mark on Jude's left forearm. Sabine's lips curled in a cruel smile as recognition dawned on her. She knew what that ugly black brand meant, even if most of her classmates could only guess at its portent. She returned to a neutral expression and finished the assignment without betraying what she had discovered. _

_                After lunch, Jude had realized that her shame was no longer a secret torment, and that, thanks to Sabine, the whole school knew of the mark. It took every ounce of fortitude she possessed to finish her last class. Thankfully, she hadn't met with much violence and had made it to her dorm room with only a few harsh words from the students in the halls. _

_                She had been so lost in her thoughts that she did not see the three boys blocking her path on the stairs. "So, it's true then." She heard an angry voice directed at her and her head snapped up to see who was talking. It was Caleb Williams, a Third Year Gryffindor, and two of his housemates. She stood rooted to the spot. She could not answer him—she was completely lost for words. He reached out and seized her left wrist with a quick motion. She barely struggled as he tugged the sleeve of her cloak up to reveal the angry mark that condemned her in his eyes. "You're one of them." He spat the words with contempt. Her eyes were wide with fear as he continued. "Do you know what they did? What you did?" He did not bother to hold back his rage. "They killed my parents. They killed my little sister—she was four years old!" _

_                She couldn't breathe. She had not killed these people but she was guilty just the same—in Caleb's eyes and in her own. "I'm sorry." She managed to choke out the words, but they felt grossly inadequate. _

_The words seemed only to fan the boy's anger. He pulled her down the stairs by the arm he still held in an iron grip. She hit the cold floor hard. In an instant, he was on top of her, pounding her furiously with his fists, hitting his mark more often than he missed. She did not fight back. She didn't event throw her arms up to protect herself as the boy took his rage out on her. She felt she owed him this—she had been a party to the murder of his entire family, and he had the right to exact his revenge on her. _

_                "What is going on here?" Jude heard Professor McGonagall's clipped voice question the gathered crowd harshly. She could feel Caleb being hauled off of her and someone pulling her to her feet. She saw Caleb, red-faced and seething, being restrained by Bill Weasley, the Prefect for Gryffindor House. Her own arm was in the tight grasp of Professor McGonagall. "Will someone please explain what this is all about?" Her sharp glance was leveled at Jude. The crowd remained silent. "Well?" she questioned, releasing Jude's arm and looking at Caleb, who simply stared daggers at Jude. _

_                "It was my fault, Professor," she said, as she looked cautiously at the crowd. They all seemed to share Caleb's venomous hatred and the feeling of so many angry eyes on her became more oppressive by the second. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of there. "I'm sorry." She quickly turned and pushed through the crowd, heading for the great oak doors as fast as her legs could carry her. _

_                The cold air hit her face, stinging her eyes and nose, which she guessed was bleeding profusely. As she ran down the frosty steps leading up to the school, she lost her footing and stumbled, skinning her knees on the icy stone. Ignoring the pain, she regained her feet and headed off the path and into the deep snow. She didn't know where she was going, but she had to get away. Hagrid's cabin was not far enough from the crowd of angry people who hated Jude with every fiber of their being. Their shouts as Caleb had beaten her rang in her ears. Not far enough away. _

_                She continued to run, but the open and snowy expanses of ground had been replaced by the frozen skeletons of trees placed so close together that the snow did not penetrate to the floor. As she continued to run, her lungs burned with the effort and the bitter cold air. The angry shouts had stopped and the pain in her face and knees was numbing to a dull throb as the chill seeped through her cloak. She stopped and looked around. The forest was silent and the afternoon sun was sinking in the west, making the last long shadows of the day. Soon it would be dark and even colder, but that did not frighten her. She could disappear in the dark and the cold would allow her to feel nothing—it was ideal, actually. _

_                She looked down at her battered knees. The blood had soaked into the knee-high white socks that provided little warmth in the biting wind. She touched the wound with a frozen finger and was astonished not to feel anything. No pain. She turned her back to the light and continued into the forest. _

_                She had lost recollection of the passage of time after the sun had cast its last feeble ray. It had been dark for sometime, and Jude was having trouble forcing her legs to obey her will. It was becoming difficult to walk without stumbling over roots rising from the frozen ground. Her hands hung lifelessly at her sides. Her vision was getting blurry and the howling wind in her ears had long ago drowned out any other noise or thought._

_ A while ago, she thought she heard someone shout her name—was it a while ago? She couldn't recall. She couldn't feel anything, not even the tree root that had knocked her feet out from under her and left her crumpled on the frozen ground. She willed herself to get up and to continue on, but her body refused to obey even the slightest command. With her cheek pressed to the frigid earth, the only movement her body allowed was the rise and fall of her chest with every ragged breath. She blinked her eyes—she even had to think to do that. "Oh well," she thought, "If this is what dying feels like, it's not so bad." A white puff descended as she exhaled a labored breath. She closed her eyes. _

_She could have sworn that she had heard it that time and it wasn't just the wind. She heard her name. Opening her eyes slowly, she heard the crunch of footsteps on the hard-frozen floor of the forest. "Am I imagining things?" she thought. Struggling, she tried to get to her feet but found that this was impossible.  She thought she heard her name called again, this time closer than the last. She saw black shoes and the hem of a thick cloak standing next to her. She felt a warm finger brush her face and saw, or more accurately, sensed that this person carried the same burden as she did—the same mark—and he understood. Her eyes fought to stay open. She wanted to know if what she was seeing was real or just a cruel trick of her imagination. Vaguely, she felt someone lifting her from the cold ground as her vision swam and sunk into blackness._

***

Adda had given Jude the night off, although Jude had put up a pretty ruthless fight. She knew Adda was conspiring with Rhys, she just knew it. He was scheduled to play at The Anchor tonight, although he would only be playing until nine o'clock. He had agreed to fill in for an opening act that had canceled as a favor to the manager. Rhys had asked Jude to come, but she had declined, saying that Adda would need the extra help that night. Of course, he had then taken it upon himself to secure the night off for Jude—and to cut off all escape for her. Adda had insisted that she enjoy the night and assured her that she did not expect a sizeable crowd—she never did on Valentine's Day. "Everyone was out to dinner with their sweethearts," Adda would sigh wistfully. 

Jude stood in front of the mirror in her small bathroom. She hated mirrors—she never liked what she saw. With sandy, rather mousy, blonde hair that she had kept in the same short bob since she could remember, and freckles dotting her rather plain face, she had no idea why Rhys was so captivated by her. It was easy to understand why she, and every other girl within a five-mile radius, was attracted to Rhys—he was gorgeous and perfect. 

There was nothing about her that would have marked her as pretty, or even exceptional in any way. She was short, not tall like all those beautiful French and Italian models that graced the cover of every fashion magazine. Yet, Rhys loved her for apparently no reason at all. 

"Just a sick twist of fate." She pulled on a sweater over her jeans and t-shirt. She refused to get dressed up for such a grossly inflated cliché as Valentine's Day. Rhys' expectations for them were already too high, without her making it worse by getting all dolled up.  It wasn't fair that Rhys had to be in love with her—when it wasn't possible for her to be the kind of person that he deserved. As his best friend, she wanted to see him happy with someone who was honest and wouldn't hide things from him. And as a candidate, she didn't even pass her own test. 

She could cope with the fact that she loved him but could not have him. It was only her heart that was at risk of being stomped on. She thought that letting him know that she was not available to him the second he showed any regard for her was the best plan. Yet it backfired—Rhys had not dated a girl since he met her. Had he seen her as some sort of challenge? No, she thought he couldn't be that petty and shallow. What was obvious, however, was that she was hurting him—she could see it every time she looked at him. He knew she had a secret—that much was certain. But he had no clue how wrong she was for him—how much the truth would hurt him more than the distance her silence created. She fingered the wide, silver band that encircled her left wrist. She knew she didn't deserve him. She sighed—he didn't know he deserved more. 

She grabbed her coat and headed for the door, shouting a hasty farewell to Adda. Pulling her coat on, she walked swiftly down the street—Rhys was already twenty minutes into his first set and he would think that she was not coming—again. She wanted to be there—hell, she wanted to follow him around like a lost little puppy—but she had to restrain herself. If she showed him how much she actually wanted to be with him, it would only encourage his feelings for her. The catch was that Jude was a horrible actor. 

The Anchor was a quaint little pub that was a little too popular for Jude's taste. Couples lined the stage, admirably dressed for the occasion. She contrasted sharply with the women dressed in satins and silks. She caught Rhys' eye from on stage as she took a seat at the bar, and his smile made her forget that, unlike the beautiful women surrounding her, she wore merely faded jeans and an old rugby sweater that belonged to him. This was going to be harder than she thought.

Rhys finished his last set with a little difficulty. His eyes, no matter how hard he fought the temptation, were drawn to Jude. She was magnetic—her every movement captivated his attention. He willed himself on and, miraculously, made it through the last song. With little ceremony, he introduced the featured artist—a no-talent, cheesy, lounge singer of a pianist who sang only love songs—badly, in Rhys' opinion. He walked over to the bar. 

She beamed at him despite the warnings in her head. He leaned against the bar, pulled her glass toward himself and drained the last inch of liquid from the bottom. He squinted up at the stage—the guy was bloody awful—then turned to Jude and smiled. "Let's get out of here, Love." His suggestion met her approval and they headed for the door. 

It had become colder outside as the night set in. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and turned to look at Rhys. 

"So, where are we headed?" she inquired, with a suspicious expression.

"Don't know. You hungry?" 

She shook her head. "You?" 

                "No." He was glad neither of them wanted to retreat to a restaurant where the conversation would wander in every direction but the way he wanted. Jude seemed like she wanted to confide in him more than ever, and he was not about to deny her the opportunity to tell him what was separating her from him. Hell, he wasn't even sure he cared anymore—there couldn't possibly be anything that she could say to make him see her in any other light than that in which he saw her at this very moment. He loved her. 

                "You want to take a walk down to the park?" Her eyes met his and begged him to say yes. How could he ever say no to her? "Mood Indigo is supposed to be playing at the amphitheater. You know you can't refuse Jazz." She nudged him with her elbow. 

                "Sure." Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, they headed to the Midsummer Commons.

It had begun to lightly snow, but that had not forced the retreat of the glamorous couples into places warmer and drier. The band played a slow, melodious Miles Davis tune—a solo trumpet cutting clear notes into the crisp evening. The music beckoned them across a small lane to an open, snow-dusted expanse dotted with chairs and a polite audience collectively enraptured with the performance. Jude smiled up at Rhys as he took in the scene. She knew his passion was music—all types that showcased the true and genuine talent of those who created it. 

"Would you like to dance?" She cut into his reverie, but it was not an unpleasant interruption. She took his hand and pulled him over to the edges of the audience. An elderly couple sat hand in hand in the very last row. Jude walked up to them and asked pardon for her interruption. Rhys had no clue what she was doing. However, this was not what he referred to as dancing.

"Excuse me, sir." The old man smiled up at her. "Would you do me the honor of granting me this dance? That is," she added, "if it's no trouble." He rose from his chair and, with a smile from his companion, he took her hand. 

"It's no trouble at all, my dear." The old man beamed. "I'd be delighted."  As they stepped elegantly over the frosted grass, Jude noticed that Rhys had gotten the hint. He and the elderly woman had joined suit. After a few moments of dancing—the old man was as graceful as Fred Astaire as they moved through the measures of the song—she felt a tap at her shoulder and turned to find the old woman asking to cut in. She acquiesced with pleasure and stepped back to watch the two glide effortlessly as if they knew how the other would move beforehand. She stood alone, watching the couple, but not for long. Rhys had come up behind her.

"She left me for another." Rhys pretended to fret over his lost partner. "A better dancer, and better looking." 

Jude laughed and turned to Rhys. He took her hand and they followed the elderly couple's example and danced. He was right—the old man was a better dancer—yet, he moved smoothly without knowing the first thing about the steps. Others had joined the two couples and the grassy expanse had transformed into an open-air ballroom floor. The band played on as elegantly dressed couples glided about them. Rhys and Jude paused to admire their handiwork—it was like an amazing Busby Berkley film where all action was temporarily suspended and people broke into spontaneous waltzes. 

The music effortlessly transitioned from the mild, blue tones of Davis to the classic, unforgettable hues of Sinatra's 'The Way You Look Tonight.' Rhys held Jude closer as he hummed the tune. "Some day." He began to sing to her and, in the manner of Gene Kelley—however less elegant—he led her through spins and steps stolen from the silver screen. "When I'm awfully low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you and the way you look tonight."

"Excuse me." Rhys turned at a tap on his shoulder. Jude turned as well to face the interruption. It was a police officer—not any that they'd recognize from the station, but maybe he was new. "I'm going to have to ask you two to leave. You're causing a disturbance." He frowned disapprovingly at the sight before him. 

"We didn't mean to distract the band, officer. However, it appears to me that, since they are still playing and seem to be gratified by the dancing, I don't see how we've caused a disturbance." Rhys gave the Bobby his most innocent smile, but Jude noticed that the officer was not appeased. 

"That gentleman in the front row complained to me just moments before." He indicated a stuffy man with an easily annoyed manner about him. He stared at Rhys and Jude contemptuously. "He said that the dancing was distracting him, and that you lot started the whole thing." The officer crossed his arms over his chest, granting himself an early victory.

"Officer," Jude replied impatiently to the wanker who'd just ruined one of the only perfect moments she'd ever had. "We didn't mean to disturb anyone, but clearly this man is the only one who seems to mind at all. I honestly don't see what all the fuss is about." 

"I'm sorry, but I am going to have to ask you two to leave." The officer raised his voice. He was greeted by annoyed shushing from the sea of people. The elderly couple glared daggers at the officer who was dampening the mood of an enchanted evening. 

"Could you keep your voice down, sonny?" The old man shot the officer a venomous glance. "We can't hear the music over your yammering." 

The officer took the hint and retreated without the pleasure of escorting the offenders off the premises. Jude laughed as the officer walked away in defeat. She was a bit surprised at the lengths people would go to in order to ruin a perfectly marvelous moment. 

The song ended and the people applauded the band. Jude and Rhys availed themselves of this moment to slip away into the starlit shadows of the park. Rhys took her left hand, wrapping it in both of his and raising her fingers to his lips, kissed it gently. She was conscious of the weight of the silver band encircling her wrist only for a moment before he spoke.

"Jude, I know that you've been wanting to tell me something for a while now." Her eyes broke his gaze and she lowered her head in guilty acknowledgement. "And that something is what has been keeping us from being happy." He searched for her eyes for a moment as she attempted to avoid his stare, but finally managed to lock his eyes with hers. "I just want to let you know that what ever it is, whatever you are afraid of saying, it's not enough." She looked puzzled and astonished. "It's not enough to make me forget how I feel about you. I love you, Jude. You know that and I know that you love me, too. So, whatever it is, I don't want to know—you don't have to tell me if that is what you want." 

His words were completely unbelievable. Was he telling her that it didn't matter who or what she had been, that he didn't even care to know? Whatever secret she was hiding wasn't enough to push him away. She found herself hoping that this was not her imagination telling her what she wanted to hear. No, this was real—he was real, and his words were real. "You deserve more than this, Rhys. You deserve…"

"What I want?" he interrupted her and rested his curly brown head, now lightly speckled with snowflakes, against her cool forehead. "I want you," he whispered, relieved to see a reluctant smile flicker across her face.

"Are you sure?" Her voice sounded doubtful, but she sincerely wanted to believe him.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life—and for me, that's saying something." He grinned and wrapped his arms around her as she laughed. He loved it when she laughed. 

The distant music reached them on the night air. Rhys bent his head to hers and kissed her gently. It was easier said than done—keeping her distance from the only person that she had ever truly loved, that is. "Oh, to hell with it," she thought, feeling her resolve shatter, "I'll allow myself this one happiness for as long as it lasts."


	5. Your Winter

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series is the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including, but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story—like anyone would pay—and no copyright infringement is intended. All other characters and situations present in this little tale are the property of the author and are guarded most jealously.

Chapter Five: Your Winter

'What else can I do?   
I said I'm sorry, yeah I'm sorry.   
I said I'm sorry , but for?   
If I hurt you then I hate myself   
Don't want to hate myself, don't want to hurt you   
Why do you chew your pain?   
If you only know how much I love you, love you    
I won't be your winter   
I won't be anyone's excuse to cry   
We can be forgiven' 

_Sister Hazel, Your Winter_

                "Morning, Love." Jude looked up from the paper to see Rhys dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt with his hair standing on end, smiling at her. She returned his smile as he placed a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Did you sleep well last night?" he asked, giving her an appraising glance as he gathered two mugs and the coffee pot. 

                "Actually, yes," she lied. At two that morning, she'd awoken from a violent dream just as she had every night before that. Wanting to avoid any subject having to do with her past and the secrets she kept hidden from Rhys, she skirted this question every morning, hoping that he would finally give up. She sensed that his patience with her was becoming a little stretched. Over a year ago, when she had finally given into him and give a romantic relationship with him a chance, he'd told her that he would let her decide when she would trust him with her secret. However, as time passed, he seemed to become more frustrated and impatient around her. She didn't blame him—he'd spent over a year in a serious relationship with his best friend knowing that she was hiding something. 

                "That's great, Love." Taking the paper, which she had dropped to take a sip of her coffee, Rhys began to leaf distractedly through the pages. After several minutes in silence, he set down the paper and drained his cup, then announced to Jude that he was going to take a shower. Reaching across the table they had been sitting at, she retrieved her stolen paper. He kissed her shortly before leaving the room.

                Things really weren't working out between them—they hadn't been for a while. Jude was surprised that they had managed to date for over a year with this kind of tension between them, tension that she'd created. Knowing that this just wasn't fair to Rhys, she decided that she needed to tell him everything, or end the relationship—both avenues, however, may cost her the best friend she'd ever had.  When she had come to a final conclusion, she got up from the table, cleaned up the dishes and put the paper away, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. She planned to trust Rhys and to tell him everything that night.

***

                Rhys climbed the stairs to his room, pulling his shirt off over his head before he got to the door. Walking into the room, he removed the rest of his clothing and headed for the shower. He turned on the water and let it run down his face as his mind picked over some things that had been bothering him lately. 

                When he started dating Jude, they had both seemed relieved that they didn't have to keep their distance from each other anymore. Things had started off great—it was like it had been when they first became good friends—hanging out at the pub and just spending time together. But it had become tense between them again. He knew he was becoming less tolerant of the fact that she refused to trust him—even though he had not told her everything about himself, either. 

                "That's beside the point, though," he reasoned with himself. "That has nothing to do with who I am now and it will just complicate things further." His secret had never created a problem for them. Jude, however, seemed terrified to face anything from her past. He knew she was still waking up in the middle of the night from haunting dreams that he doubted would ever stop. Yet, she'd lied to him about it—she didn't trust him with this part of her life and didn't want his help dealing with it. He sighed and wiped the water from his eyes. He had to let her tell him on her own. If he pushed her, he feared he might lose her, and that he was not willing to risk. 

                He stepped from the shower and grabbed the towel lying on the floor. Dripping, he walked into his room. The summer sun was peeking through the window, making it a little warmer in the room than he would prefer. He pushed the window open and was greeted by the morning breeze and the sounds from the street. Heading back to the other side of the room to retrieve some clothes, he was startled by a screech that sounded like it had come from a large bird of prey. He swung around to face the window and was surprised to see a large, brown owl, puffed up with a self-important air. It was clasping a letter in its talons. 

***

                "Hullo, Rhys, Hullo Darcy." Jude walked through the door of the bakery after having been gone for the better part of the morning. She ruffled the thick fur of the dog that had come to greet her and leaned over the counter to peck Rhys on the cheek. 

                "Hullo, Love. Glad you're back," Rhys replied as he removed the apron he'd been wearing. "Don't tell me, you failed every class and you have to leave the school in shame." He smiled and watched her throw her bag on the floor as she collapsed into a chair, exhausted from having made record time getting to the bakery from the Senate house before Rhys' first class started. She had been to the school to check her grades for the year—her third year at Cambridge. 

                "No, actually. Just the opposite." Her three years at the university had been a breeze. Her classes were interesting as well as challenging, but not anything that she couldn't handle. The summer had once again come too quickly for her liking, and for the next three or so months she would have to find other things to occupy her time.

"That's my girl," Rhys exclaimed as he disappeared into the back of the store to grab a package he meant to deliver on his way to class.

 "Is Adda gone, then?" she asked when he reappeared with the parcel in one hand and his bag flung over one shoulder.

"Yeah, you don't mind watching the store alone, do you?" He grabbed a cookie and stuck it in his mouth, then grabbed his coffee off of the counter, obviously in a hurry. Jude hoped she hadn't made him late.

"'Course I don't mind," she replied, taking the coffee from his hand as he attempted to shuffle the items he was juggling. She took a sip and winced—he always ruined his coffee by adding too much sugar, while she preferred black and unsweetened. She took another drink despite herself as he set down the box and reached into his pocket.

 "I almost forgot." He produced a vanilla hued parchment envelope with official, yet elegant script. Jude was paying little attention to what he was doing, as she was still paying Darcy her affections. "You got an owl this morning." He tossed the envelope on the table in front of her. 

At the word "owl," Jude's eyes flew open wide and she saw an envelope tossed in front of her. She sputtered on the coffee she had just sipped and turned to look at Rhys with a terrified expression on her face. He couldn't have just said what she thought he'd said, could he? He couldn't be serious! He was…laughing? She was amazed. Why would he be laughing? And why had he delivered her a message sent to him by mistake from an owl, like it was a common occurrence?

Rhys couldn't help but laugh as Jude choked on her coffee at the sight of the letter, then turned white as a ghost, looking up at him in horror. "Yes, Love. I know what this means—you're a witch. At first, I thought it was for me. But I couldn't think of a single soul who'd send me an owl—my grandfather, the only link I've had to the wizarding world since my parents were killed, has been dead for years. Plus, it's addressed to you. How's that for detective work?" He smiled, obviously pleased with himself for his discovery. "You don't have anything to worry about, Love," he tried to reassure her—she still looked stunned. "I'm a wizard, you're a witch—probably the only two in all of Cambridge—hell, probably all of England—who are living as Muggles. And we've been living together for three years and neither of us knew it." To his surprise, she looked a little relieved, but still shocked. He looked at his watch. Damn it! He was late. "Look, Love, we'll talk about this later, okay? I've got to go." He waited for her to say something, anything. 

"Sure," she stammered. He kissed her on the forehead and reclaimed his coffee from her grasp. "Tonight?" She was still struggling to make sense of everything that had just happened and she wanted answers—soon. 

"Yeah." Then, he remembered that he had promised to play that night. "Bugger, I forgot. I promised Gabe I'd play at his place tonight. Do you want to meet me there?" he asked, hoping that she would agree—there was so much he wanted to know about her now that her secret had been unwittingly revealed. Maybe she would allow him to help her with what ever it was that tormented her constantly. "We could talk after I'm done." 

"Yeah, that sounds good." She stared at the letter knowing that her little world had been broken. She had run for three years, but her past had found her. The question was how much of the damage caused by this letter could be repaired and how much was forever changed?

Rhys gathered his things once again and headed for the door. As he opened it, letting in the bustling sounds from the street, he turned to look at Jude. She looked okay—all things considered. He felt a little guilty for springing this on her, but she was tough and would recover soon, he had no doubt. Before he left, he reminded her to open the letter. "It's from the Ministry. Looks important." To his relief she smiled a little at that. 

***

When Rhys had gone, Jude grabbed the letter and ripped open the green wax seal. She pulled out a single sheet of parchment filled with tidy lines of writing. She already detested the Ministry of Magic and this letter caused the loathing to run deeper still. She sighed and looked around the store. It was empty. With nothing better to do and out of sheer curiosity she read:

_Ms. Elliot:_

_This letter is to inform you that the Ministry's Department of the Mysteries has spent the last three years locating your current whereabouts. Please forgive the intrusion into your personal affairs, but you must understand that a person of your background and of your abilities poses a certain risk to our ministry, specifically, and our society in general. Your disappearance from the magical community was a great cause for concern and a sizeable security risk. _

_The Department of the Mysteries, as you might notice, has been successful in their task and is aware of your current location attending the university at __Cambridge__. We also know that you have been employed these last three years by Adda Willis at her bakery on Elm and __Eden Street__, which also serves as your residence. The Ministry wishes to respect your decision to live without magic. However, in the interest of security, we must ask you to notify us of any change in residence, occupation, etc. Failure to notify the Ministry of any change will result in the appropriate legal action. _

_You will be monitored by agents from the Department of the Mysteries, effective immediately. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, but we assure you that this action is absolutely necessary to ensure the safety of all. _

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic_

Jude tossed the letter onto the table indignantly. Why didn't the Ministry just come right out and say that they didn't trust her any farther than they could throw her? She could imagine the spooks from the Department of the Mysteries, the Ministry's own CIA, looking under every rock and in every dark hole for a dangerous villain plotting the end of the world.

"Just think of how surprised they must have been when they found who they were looking for living as a Muggle, not giving a fuck what the Ministry was up to and not hatching any sinister plans. No, they found terrifying little Jude serving croissants and coffee." She had to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. She'd spent her life proving herself—her loyalty to the Ministry. But her words and actions had never been enough. She would forever be suspect and they'd always be keeping an eye on her. Maybe someday that would all change, but today was not that day.

They'd been watching her—probably even at this very moment. Despite herself, she glanced out the pristine windows of the little shop. The streets were clear—no one in sight. She hated the fact that people now knew what she was up to at all times—not that she was ever "up to" anything. It was just another testament to the fact that no matter what she did, people would always suspect her of being in league with the enemy. "It would serve the goons right if I just packed up and skipped town. They're good at tracking, but I'll bet I'm better at hiding." She smiled. They probably expected that scenario to be her reaction, and therefore sent her this letter. The Ministry had been itching to put her away in Azkaban since she was ten. They would love for her to give them a reason to do so. 

The tinkling of the small bell above the door announcing the arrival of a customer startled her from her thoughts. She turned to see an elderly gentleman and a little girl walk through the door. She greeted the customers and got up from her chair. She met them at the counter and served the man tea and a fresh cinnamon scone and gave the little girl a chocolate chip cookie. As they thanked her and left the store, a dark-haired man in a plain black suit entered. He could have been anyone, or no one. Jude could not, however, resist an extra close look at the gentleman, trying to determine if he was one of the hounds the Ministry had set on her. After the man left with his purchase, she slammed her fists down on the counter. Damn them! Now she would be looking over her shoulder for as long as she knew they were watching—and the last thing she wanted was to let them push her into paranoia. She slumped into a chair and rested her head in her hands. This day couldn't possibly get any worse, she figured. The letter caught her eye and she quickly seized it. Glancing at its contents one last time, she snapped her fingers and the parchment was consumed in bright orange flames.

***

Rhys was performing at their pub, The Free Press, just down the block. Jude had stayed with Adda to see the last customers to the door and then helped with cleaning the shop. Adda had noticed her foul mood when she came back in the afternoon. Jude, however, was unwilling to talk about it and she had left it at that. Jude was grateful that Adda had not pressed the subject further. 

After Adda had gone to bed, Jude gathered Darcy and headed for the local to meet Rhys. It was now ten o'clock and he'd be nearly finished by the time she got there. As she pushed open the door and let Darcy walk in before her, she looked up to the small stage. He was in the middle of another one of his creatively innovative numbers. He noticed Jude as she found her usual booth, and when she looked up again, he winked at her and gave her his most charming smile. She smiled back. Somehow Rhys could make her feel as if, despite anything, things would be okay as long as he was there. 

With a mug of her favorite ale in hand, she settled in to watch Rhys finish his last set. Her head rested on the back of her seat as she listened, letting all of the tension that had been building since that morning drain from her body. Rhys's voice summoned her back from her respite as he announced the next song. 

"And for the last song, _Witchcraft_ by the devilishly talented Frank Sinatra. This is for Jude, my love." 

She laughed a little at this, even though it was terribly mortifying every time he singled her out or dedicated a song to her at a performance. Still, she appreciated the gesture—it was cute, really. And, she had to admit, he had a great sense of humor.

_It's such an ancient pitch_

_But one I wouldn't switch_

'Cause there's no nicer witch than you 

Rhys took a seat in the cozy booth next to Jude, bringing with him another round of drinks. Jude snuggled into him as he wrapped an arm around her. His presence was comforting. 

"How was your day, Love?" He broke the short silence between them.

"Good, after I recovered from the initial shock," she joked. "How was yours? How was the test? Did you get to your class on time?" 

"I was a few minutes late, but it didn't matter. Professor Langley was in a generous mood today, which is surprising because he's usually a complete asshole. Maybe it was the joy of knowing that half the class would fail his completely useless exam. By the way, I'm pretty sure now that I missed a question." 

"So, I guess, congratulations?" She smiled at him. He was always so hard on himself when it came to this kind of thing. 

He laughed and took a drink. "Well, let's move on, shall we? Now that both of our secrets are out in the open, will you finally talk to me?" She looked a little guilty for having kept so much from him, he could tell. He tried to make her feel a little better. "Hey, I kept just as much hidden about myself as you did. We're even, okay?" She nodded, but kept silent.     Now that she knew he was a wizard, she thought that it might be easier to tell him about her involvement with Lord Voldemort—she was only a child and had no one else, after all—and he might understand that she had little choice under the circumstances. But she wanted him to speak first—to see where he was coming from. 

"I'll start, then, I guess." He didn't really want to dredge up the past, but he had to now whether he wanted to or not. "My dad, Rufus Mallory, was a wizard and my mum, Lillith, was a Muggle. I was raised around magic—my mum allowed my dad to teach me a few things and, when I began to show the same abilities, she agreed to allow me to go to school and learn magic when I was old enough. My dad worked for the Ministry in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—exactly what he did, I don't remember, though. One night while I was visiting my grandfather—my dad's father, who was also a wizard—both of my parents were killed." He inhaled deeply and ran a hand over his eyes. Jude could tell that this was tough for him to talk about. She rested her head on his shoulder and put her hand in his just to let him know that she was there for him. This gave him the courage to press on. "A man who my father had been helping the Ministry to capture broke in and murdered them—he'd hunted down others like my father and murdered their families as well, he and his followers." 

Jude swallowed hard. It couldn't possibly be…could it? "Do you remember his name?" She squeezed his hand, almost willing him not to say the name that she feared would follow. 

"Lord Voldemort," he intoned somberly, "a dark wizard. Anyway, after my parents' deaths, I lived with my grandfather, who decided that it would be best if we left all traces of magic behind us. That is how I came to be a wizard masquerading as a Muggle." He'd ended his story and waited for Jude to relate the events of how she too had fled the magical community, but she was lost in thought so he focused his attention on draining his beer, hoping to drown the pain of his childhood in the cool, dark liquid. 

The name he'd spoken had ripped her from reality and sent her into a spinning world of warring thoughts. Her mind was racing. He would never understand if she told him that she was once among the ranks of the people responsible for the murder of his parents—that she was the protégé of that very same dark wizard his father had pursued. She did what she had to—she lied to him. Well, not so much lying—more like telling only half of the story. He seemed satisfied with her story and didn't press her for further details. It hurt to keep more from him, when he thought that was all behind them. But she had no choice—she couldn't tell him—that meant losing him forever. The past was irrelevant—that wasn't the person she was anymore—that Jude was dead. She'd died when she'd killed that innocent father and husband. The past should be allowed to die along with her, shouldn't it? The only link to that past was the hideous mark on her wrist that condemned her to those memories irrevocably. She'd kept it hidden under a wide silver band ever since she'd let her secret slip to Sabine MacDermod during her second year in school. And as long as she didn't make that mistake again, she would be safe. But how long could she keep something like this hidden. As long as she had to, she reasoned willfully, biting back any warring logic that threatened to topple the plan that was to be her saving grace in the storm she now felt was raging without mercy all around her. 


	6. The Space Between

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the wonderful world of Harry Potter are property of the talented J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including, but not limited to, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. Sadly, no money is being made from this story and I will remain a poor college student for the rest of my life. No copyright infringements were intended, so please do not haul me off to the slammer—I wouldn't be able to afford bail. Jude, Rhys, Darcy and Adda—along with their crazy little mixed up world—belong to me—along with this paddleball game and this book of matches (Sorry, but… _The Jerk_, it's a classic!). 

Author's Note: Okay, we're getting there. In this chapter, a friend from Jude's past pops up and the plot thickens. This takes place the summer before Harry's first year. Chapters 7, 8, 9, and 10 soon to follow, and Jude will then return to Hogwarts for the escapades involving the Sorcerer's Stone. Enjoy kids!

Chapter 6: The Space Between

'You cannot quit me so quickly 

_Is no hope in you for me?_

_No corner you could squeeze me_

_But I got all the time for you, Love._

_The Space Between_

_The tears we cry _

_Is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more_

_The Space Between_

_The wicked lies we tell _

_And hope to keep safe from the pain_

_But will I hold you again?_

_These fickle, fuddled words confuse me_

_Like 'Will it rain today?'_

_Waste the hours with talking, talking_

_These twisted games we're playing…'_

_Dave Matthews Band, The Space Between_

                Jude and Rhys stood on the Silver Street Bridge staring out over the water as it glided smoothly under them. The air held a slight chill for summer—a storm was brewing to the south and its pewter clouds were advancing steadily upon them. Jude hugged her arms around her and tried to summon up all the courage she possessed. She couldn't bring herself to look at Rhys—she knew he was angry, however, because she could feel the tension in his body as he gripped the railing of the bridge hard. 

                "Why are you doing this, Jude?" He looked at her, but her expression remained blank—she betrayed no emotion as she continued to focus unblinkingly on the iron sky. "We were happy together, admit it. Why are you doing this now—to me and to yourself?" She remained silent. He gripped the rails tighter, the rough stone biting into his hands. He'd thought everything was finally okay, that all secrets were out in the open and that everything was going to be fine between them. It had been for a while and it was like old times again—when she laughed, when she told him things, when she wasn't afraid every moment of every day. At least he'd told her all of his secrets—he wasn't sure how much she was still hiding. But what else could there possibly be? 

"What is it? What aren't you telling me? For God's sake, Jude, nothing can be that bad. Quit playing your twisted little game!" He couldn't help but betray a little of his anger at her, although he doubted it helped the situation at all. "Or are you just so messed up that you can't bear to be happy? Is that it?" His anger overflowed and he could not stem the tide. He wanted her to feel a little of the pain that she was causing him. 

                She looked at him. It hurt more than she could bear—doing this to him. Yet her cold gaze and stony expression betrayed none of that inner torment to Rhys. She couldn't let him see how much this was killing her just as it was hurting him. When she finally spoke, she surprised even herself, as she adopted a soulless monotone. What else could she say? She didn't know what else she could say to push him away, and naturally her mind reverted to the elegant lines of literature, which she quoted robotically. "Happiness is but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain." Thomas Hardy's _Jude the Obscure_ was one of the first books she'd ever read. She'd first discovered as a child its solemn themes that somewhat echoed her life by accident when she was passing time in a London library until the best time for picking the pockets of the population of the city. The title bearing her name drew her to its pages. 

                "Don't give me that bullshit, Jude. Do you honestly believe that we should go through life never expecting to find happiness? That we don't deserve it?" He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and turned her from the waters edge to face him. Her body obeyed, but her eyes refused to look into his. This frustrated him further. She should at least have the guts to look him in the eye while she was lying to him—while she was ripping his heart out and Flamenco dancing all over it. "Everyone deserves to be happy, Jude, including you, whether you believe it or not." He couldn't fathom why she was pushing him away—what would frighten her this much?

                "Rhys, trust me. This will be better for the both of us in the long run. I can only hurt you, and I don't want to do that." She continued in the same flat monotone voice. 

                "Bollocks! What do you think you're doing now? Do you think I enjoy this, watching my best friend and the only girl I've ever loved walk out of my life?" The thought terrified him more than ever, now that he'd spoken it. She was leaving him—perhaps forever. "The past is dead. It's gone, Jude. It can't hurt you anymore." He tried to convince her but he could feel every word failing to dislodge the lie she'd convinced herself of. 

"No!" she interrupted angrily, showing the first emotions she'd had the whole day. "It's not dead, don't you get that? It never dies, it just lies in wait to ambush you when you least expect it—when you've got more to lose than you've ever had in your life!" There had been too many close calls recently. On two occasions in the two months that had passed since the letter from the Ministry had shaken her secure world to its very foundations, she'd almost carelessly revealed the mark on her left arm. The time had come to tell him or leave him—she could no longer hide. Doubting that she could bear to see the look of hatred and disgust in his eyes each time he looked at her—the inevitable consequences if she told him everything—she decided it would be best for them both if she'd just left him—no explanation at all. She could feel her face begin to flush with rage as she screamed the words.

Clenching her fists with barely controlled fury, she continued. "It can still hurt me. Oh, make no mistake about that. But I'll beat it to the punch this time. I'm leaving Adda's tonight—I'm looking for another job and another place to stay. Goodbye, Rhys." She turned her back on him as he dropped his head and rested his hands against the stone railing for support. She was actually going to do this. 

                "There's nothing I can say, nothing I can do?" he asked, defeat echoing in his hollow voice.

                Without turning, she answered no. Her shoulders sagged a little as she walked away—it was done. She didn't turn around once as she left. Only the sound of Rhys angrily driving his fist into the solid stone of the bridge where they'd spent many hours in each other's company, mocking the boaters who passed, pursued her down the street. Eventually, though all was drowned out by the gusting winds of the storm behind her.

***

                The tinkling of the tiny bell above the door announced to Adda that someone had entered the door of her shop. She turned from the dough she was rolling out on a marble table to see Jude walk in, looking as if she'd just lost her best friend. "How was lunch with Rhys, dear?" She tried her best to act as if she hadn't noticed Jude's downtrodden and weary expression. However, her fears were confirmed when Jude told her in a flat, dispassionate voice that she and Rhys had ended their relationship irrevocably. 

                Adda had immediately ushered Jude into a chair and poured her a cup of coffee. Jude simply stared at the steaming cup as Adda asked her about the "whys" that inevitably came. She explained everything to the old woman, who then insisted that she fix everything up between Rhys and herself and just to allow herself to be happy. Jude refused to listen to her condemnation again—she'd heard enough from Rhys already and she could barely cope with that, let alone Adda's chiding. 

                "This isn't going to get better, Adda. Trust me on this. It's over." The old lady's face fell at this. She loved Jude and Rhys as if they were her very own children and didn't want to see either unhappy. "And I can't stay here any more," Jude finished. "I can't live and work in the same place with him. I have to leave." Adda looked as though she would cry.

                "But where will you go, dear? And who will take care of you?" 

Jude allowed a weak smile. No one had taken care of her as well as Adda had done. She would miss spending every morning helping her bake the day's wares and chatting about nothing in particular. This place was comforting and safe for her—but no longer could she stay here. 

                "No one can replace you, that's for certain." Jude bent over the table to hug the woman, who now held a lacy handkerchief to her eyes. "But I can look after myself, you know that." Adda nodded. "And I promise to visit you all the time," Jude tried to comfort her.

                Adda sniffed. "You'd better. It'll be so lonely here with out you, dear." She burst into another loud sob. "Oh, I miss you already." Jude stood and walked over to Adda's chair, then wrapped her arms around the woman who'd been so kind to her, trying to comfort her as best as she knew how.

                After a few moments, the two broke apart. "Well, I guess I have to go and pack. I'll only be a few minutes—I don't have that much stuff." She smiled at Adda, hoping she wouldn't start sobbing again. "I'll be back down to settle the room with you." Adda sunk back into the chair and dotted her eyes tragically with her handkerchief as Jude sullenly climbed the stairs to her room. 

                Opening the door to the flat she and Rhys had shared for over three years now, Jude was immediately greeted by Darcy. She knelt and hugged the dog, who'd been as faithful a companion to her as she had been to Rhys. She was going to miss the affectionate hound. As she sat down on the floor, leaning back against the closed door, she rested her forehead on the dog's furry head. She'd been a fool to think that she could have this life—the life she'd always dreamed of. To make such good friends—to find love—was careless of her. It would have been better if she'd remained alone. That way, no one would have been hurt. A single tear fell down her expressionless and pale face, despite trying with all her might not to cry.

***

                It didn't take her very long to pack her few belongings in the battered luggage that had accompanied her here three years ago. She lugged two suitcases and a small cardboard box containing various miscellaneous items down the stairs where Adda was waiting for her. She looked as if she'd been crying the entire time Jude was upstairs. Jude smiled in a manner she hoped was cheerful, but knew bordered merely on resignation and resoluteness. 

                "Someone's been looking for you. He's in the front." She jerked her thumb toward the main room of the store. Jude's stomach dropped. Was it Rhys? Her mind raced quickly. She hadn't expected him to show up for a while—at least not until she'd made her escape. 

                Adda noticed her agitated appearance and quickly reassured her that she'd never seen this person in her entire life. "It's a gentleman with black hair wearing a black coat." 

Was it someone from the Ministry? She wondered. How could they know she was planning to leave so quickly? Oh, well. She would deal with him in due time.

                Jude held out the key and what little cash she had saved to Adda, who tearfully took the key, but refused to take Jude's money. "Take it." Jude insisted forcefully and pushed the folded bills into her hand. She then set down her bags to give the woman one last embrace. 

                "You be careful, do you understand young lady?" Jude loved it when Adda talked to her like she was eight. "Don't be a stranger now, I want to see you in here often—and I mean every day." She kissed Jude on the cheek before allowing her to pick up her bags and head for the door. Adda pressed her handkerchief to her face and retreated into the back of the store. 

                As Jude emerged from the back room, her eyes fell on a familiar, yet totally unexpected, face. "What the hell are you doing here?" she exclaimed without thinking and dropped her bags, which crashed to the ground with a loud thud.

                "So nice to see you again, too," the person said a little sarcastically and smirked. "It's been far too long, Jude."

                Still reeling from the shock of the encounter, but a little ashamed at the way she'd just greeted her old professor, she gathered her composure and her bags that now littered the floor around her feet. "Sorry, Professor. But you…sort of caught me off guard—you were the last person I expected." She shifted her burden uncomfortably, not knowing what to say next. Her eyes flickered to his face for a moment then returned to the ground, and she smiled a little awkwardly. "It's nice to see you again, it's just…why do I get the feeling that you standing here isn't a good thing?" She shifted the box in her arms, waiting for an answer.

                Professor Snape nodded solemnly. "I have a favor to ask of you on behalf of Dumbledore. Is there somewhere we could talk?" Then, as if noting her suitcases for the first time, he asked with a frown "Were you going somewhere?" 

                "I have to move," she replied shortly. This was not something she wanted to discuss for the third time. 

                "Why? Is everything alright, Jude?" he asked, betraying a little concern.

                "Everything's fine. Couldn't be better," she answered dully, her face the same emotionless mask. "We can go around the corner to the pub and talk." She headed off that conversation immediately. He took the box from under her arm and they headed for the door. Before they rounded the corner, she couldn't help but cast a farewell glance at the small bakery on the corner of Paradise. She had the feeling that she would not be seeing that place for a while. 

***

                "You know, when Adda told me that someone wanted to see me—someone she'd never seen around before—I thought it was a Spook from the Ministry." She smiled. 

                "Spook? Jude, you really should stop watching American spy movies." He joked about the situation, but in truth, he knew how frustrating it must be for Jude to deal with this. The Ministry had also treated him with the same suspicion in years past—he wasn't sure they trusted him even now. He knew already that she was being watched. The Department of the Mysteries had sent a few agents to Hogwarts to question Dumbledore on the whereabouts of his dangerous student. Of course, Dumbledore had not cooperated, even though they both knew where Jude was. 

                "I got a letter from Fudge saying that if I didn't notify them if I left, there'd be "consequences". If those bastards think I'm going to tell them that I left, they have another thing coming. They can track me down again, for all I care. They should have to work for their seven sickles. This will be the perfect opportunity for them to finally throw me in Azkaban. I don't give a fuck what they do," she finished dispassionately.

                "Language, Miss Elliot." Snape raised an eyebrow at Jude. He knew she hated when anyone called her by her last name. She eyed him indignantly, but remained silent. He continued, now that he held her attention. "You won't go to Azkaban. Dumbledore has already notified the Ministry that you plan to leave." Her reaction was that of utter surprise.

                "But how could Dumbledore know…" she sputtered, trying to make sense of everything.

                "Calm down, Jude. He's not a mind reader. He didn't know you were leaving your flat for God knows where. But he did want the Ministry to be informed that you planned to be at Hogwarts for the upcoming school year." 

                Jude was beyond confused. "Why would I be at Hogwarts?" Jude asked, hoping everything would soon become clearer. 

                "You've been offered a job. Dumbledore would like for you to accept the position of his personal assistant." 

                "But I can't leave now. My life is here. I have an internship at a publishing company and this is my last year at the university. You can't expect me to just leave this all behind because of some whim of Dumbledore's. Everything for me is here." 

                "That's not what it seems to me," he replied evenly, casting his eyes pointedly on the pile of bags under Jude's feet.

                "You're wrong," she lied. She had, in the past few hours, lost everything that was dear to her in this town. Her education meant little to her besides being her reason for staying here in Cambridge, near Rhys and Adda. She had little reason to stay now, and she knew it. But hell if she was going back there. "Why should I go back?" She would at least allow him to explain.

                "Because you have a duty to someone." 

                She closed her eyes. This was infinitely frustrating. He wouldn't just come right out and tell her what was so important that he had to come all the way to Cambridge to persuade her to do. It was typical of them, really. Whatever was going on, Dumbledore knew that Jude would refused to come back to Hogwarts—to the magical community, in general—at all costs. She also knew that Dumbledore was familiar enough with her to send Professor Snape to twist her arm. 

                She was tired of owing people. Whoever this person was that she had a duty to could forget it—she was done with it all for good. She was not going back. Still, out of curiosity, she asked, "Who?"

                "Harry Potter." 

                He couldn't have said anything else that would have produced such an effect on her. She froze—a silent statue staring at her professor in disbelief. That was it, then. If the boy whose father she killed and whose mother she failed to save needed her to come back from her exile, then she would do it. It was an obligation that she could not walk away from. She continued to stare at him, waiting for him to continue.

                "Did you know that he will be attending Hogwarts this upcoming fall?" 

She shook her head. Yes, that made sense, though. He must be nearing eleven now and of course he'd be attending the best wizarding school in Britain—he had, after all, reduced the most feared dark wizard of his time to a weak and disembodied spirit when he was only a year or so old. "Well, you very well know," Professor Snape continued, "that Voldemort was never truly killed. We have not been successful in tracking his whereabouts and Dumbledore fears that he may make a bid to gain immortality again and come after the Potter boy." She nodded, wanting him to continue. "Dumbledore received news from Belgium early this summer—it appears that someone, perhaps one of Voldemort's followers, tried to break into Nicholas Flamel's residence. They must have been looking for…" He was interrupted by a hoarse whisper from Jude. 

                "The Sorcerer's Stone." It seemed the likely target for Voldemort—an easy and fail-proof way of regaining everything that he'd lost the night he'd tried to kill Harry.

                "You know about it, then." He looked mildly surprised. But then again, his prized student had been an avid reader of everything she could get her hands on and it was not unlikely that she would be familiar with Flamel and his life's work. 

                She nodded distractedly. She'd studied Flamel and other great sorcerers of the time—including Dumbledore. Flamel and Dumbledore were the only other known wizards with such abilities, beside herself, that were still living. Flamel, she knew, should have been dead long ago, if not for his fabled Elixir of Life—a product of the Stone's ability—which now appeared to be a little more than just myth.

                "Dumbledore retrieved the Stone after the muddled attempt to steal it and it is now at Gringott's." He lowered his voice as he explained. "He doesn't think that it will be safe, however, until it is under his watch at the castle."

                "But that would just lure Voldemort to where Harry is. Dumbledore wouldn't be so foolish as to put the Stone and Harry in the same place. That would make it too easy, and Voldemort wouldn't be able to resist." As she said the words, it all clicked and finally came into clear focus. "He's going to use them both as bait, isn't he? He wants to catch Voldemort badly enough that he would put Harry and everyone of the students there in jeopardy?" 

                "No, Jude. Harry wouldn't be in danger and neither would any of the other students. The school is highly protected and Dumbledore is a far greater wizard than Voldemort. There will be plenty of protection to ensure the boy's safety. That's where you come in." 

                Jude looked up from her hands resting on the table to look at the professor. 

                "Dumbledore wants you around the castle as another pair of eyes and ears. You will be watching Harry the entire time he is at school." 

                Jude shifted uneasily in her chair. She didn't like the fact that she was going to be a pawn in a plan that involved putting an innocent child at risk. Snape sensed her feelings.

                "Voldemort has been reduced to a shell of his former self, Jude. He wouldn't be a threat unless he got to the Stone. And we'll stop him before he does."

                "Why doesn't Dumbledore just destroy the Stone? Why would he risk so much when this could all be avoided?" She tried to make sense of everything.

                "Because it is against the wishes of his partner, Flamel. Without the Stone, he and his wife will die." Jude crossed her arms in disgust. Flamel would put innocent people in danger just so he could continue to live on borrowed time. That was beyond selfishness, but what could you expect from an alchemist who'd spent his life creating something from nothing?

                "And we've been unsuccessful in locating Voldemort until now. Jude, this could be the last chance to end it all—for good." That was a pretty damned convincing reason to risk all that they planned to Jude had to admit. For it to be all over—that seemed almost too much to hope for.

                "Can we count on you?" Snape fixed a piercing stare on her. He knew she was in, but he needed to hear the words.

                "Yes, of course." She sighed, defeated. She knew that this would come eventually, and she hoped that it would not end up costing her everything she had to give.

                "Good." He felt somewhat guilty for having had a hand in dragging her back into a life she'd tried so hard to leave behind. But everyone had to pay for their sins—he and Jude were no exception. "Dumbledore thinks that it would be best if you were present on the train to Hogwarts, just in case anything should happen." He studied Jude's expression. She looked resigned and determined. That was a good sign. She was pretty much unstoppable when she was determined to do something. "Of course you know when and where." He did not need to elaborate further, for she had, at one time been a student at that school. "And in the meantime," he suggested, "you can stay at the Abbey. I plan to be there until the term starts, myself. And I could use the company." 

                She looked skeptical of the offer, but where else could she go? Certainly not back to Adda's, and there was nowhere else in this town that she could think of to stay. She did miss the old house in Dover where she'd spent many summers as a child. She nodded her head, gratefully accepting the offer. 

                "Well, it's getting late." And with little ceremony, he lifted Jude's bags and walked out the door, as she followed with the box in her arms.

                Outside, the sky had grown dark and the advancing clouds had settled low over the town, threatening rain and lightning. As the professor pulled out his wand to Apparate back to his home, Jude reached for the silver charm around her neck. It was a portkey to the very same manor—one of the few places she'd ever considered home. "Domi," she whispered and in a flash, both persons were gone, leaving the dark alley as empty as it had been when they'd entered it.


	7. The Abbey

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and various companies, including but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. The others are all mine. No money is being made off of this story and no copyright infringements are intended.

Chapter Seven: The Abbey

'Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away 

_Now it looks as though they're here to stay_

_Oh, I believe in Yesterday'_

_The Beatles, Yesterday_

                Jude dropped the box at her feet and looked up at the soaring ceiling above her. She was alone in the entry of the Abbey that had served as the manor for the professor's family for centuries. The dark, cold and familiar halls of this house were oddly comforting. She missed Rhys already, yet she was glad that she'd put an end to their relationship—it would have been so much harder to leave had she not hurt him so bad. As things stood now, she had nothing left in Cambridge to keep her there. But maybe when this was all over, she would be able to go back. 

"No, that's impossible," she told herself. "You were a fool to think that you could leave everything behind. But it caught up to you, didn't it? And now that life is over and this is all that you have left." 

                She sighed and lifted the box from the cold, stone floor and made her way to the staircase. Down one of the many drafty corridors, she pushed open a heavy, oak door and smiled at the sight that greeted her. It was her room—just as she'd left it. The only additions to the room were her two suitcases set neatly at the foot of her bed. She let the box fall to her feet and she made her way over to a large, wooden wardrobe. She flung the doors wide and looked inside. Reaching out a hand, she touched dark fabric. It was her old school uniform—the dark robes, skirt and vest and the green and silver tie that signified her House. She smiled a half-hearted smile, admitting that she'd never expected to see such articles again. The memories she associated with her old belongings from her school days were not always pleasant, but they were a part of her—of who she was—and seeing them here in this room where she'd spent many summers and holidays was a gentle reminder that she could never leave this life fully in the past. 

                Books lined the floor of the wardrobe—schoolbooks from years of study at Hogwarts. She lifted a volume and opened its pages. Moving pictures of goblins and elves locked in a medieval battle told her that this was one of the numerous texts from History of Magic—one of her favorite classes, yet one that was among the most despised by her classmates. She read a few passages from the page, allowing herself to be lost for a moment in another world. This is why she'd always loved History lessons, because for the hour she spent in that class, she could become entranced in stories that let her forget. As she flipped the page, she heard the familiar muffled whispers that she remembered so well. Looking up from the book, her eyes settled on a small, dark shape in the open doorway. It was Fritzy, one of the three house elves employed here. She smiled and greeted the small creature that had been one of her only friends for years. 

                "Hello, Fritzy." She crossed the room and stood in front of the timid being who was wearing a pristine pillowcase—the accustomed uniform of the resident elves. 

                "Oh, Fritzy is so pleased to be seeing Miss. I thought I was never going to be seeing her again," the elf stammered in a high, squeaky voice. Jude did her best to comfort her. Regaining her composure, the elf continued. "I hope Miss finds everything satisfactory. Nothing has changed since Miss was last here on orders from Master. I have already brought Miss's bags in from the hall." The tiny elf beamed at Jude, expecting praise for her good deeds. 

                "Yes, everything is perfect, as usual, Fritzy." 

                "Master has sent Fritzy to fetch Miss. He wishes to speak to Miss in his study." The tiny elf motioned for Jude to follow her through the door and down yet another corridor. She sighed and followed, not really wanting to talk to the professor because she knew that she would inevitably spill everything about the last few years—the last subject that she wanted to discuss right at this moment. He had always been able to get her to tell him anything, a skill she particularly resented. 

                "Oh, well," she thought, resignedly. "I'll just have to work very hard at being elusive." 

                "We are so happy to have Miss back. It is lonely without Miss around." Fritzy smiled broadly. Anyone not accustomed to the tiny elf would have thought that she looked sinister when she smiled. But to Jude, who was quite familiar with the short creature with long, pointy ears and a nose to match, she simply looked grateful for the return of her friend. "Hobbs and Milly are very excited to be seeing Miss, too," Fritzy explained. "They are fetching tea for Miss and Master, and should be here in a moment." As she spoke, the elf dutifully opened a heavy door and let the golden light from the fireplace into the dark hall. Even though it was summer and fairly warm outside, inside the Abbey was constantly cold and dark. Therefore, the fireplaces in occupied rooms were lit year round, as much for the warmth as for the light they provided. 

                Jude stepped into the room as Fritzy dutifully announced that she'd accomplished her mission. The two other house elves had also completed their duty and stood beaming by the fire at the sight of their former mistress and friend. Jude greeted the two briefly before all three returned to their work. The professor snapped shut the book that had occupied his attention since he'd returned from Cambridge. He rose from his chair behind the dark, wooden desk and removed the round, scholarly glasses he was wearing. Moving over to the sofa and chairs by the fire, where the tea had been set for them both, he and Jude took their seats. 

                Catching up on three years seemed a little awkward to Jude, at first. Even though, in an odd sort of symmetry, this cold and closed man was the person Jude—herself distant and detached—was closest to, it was hard to pick up where they'd left off. She asked how things had been for him that year at school, how his classes had gone, et cetera. They both skirted the subject that was the foremost on both of their minds—the situation that September the First would bring. Instead, the silence was passed in enjoying the warm tea. Finally, the silence was broken by something more substantial than small talk. It was what Jude had been dreading.

                "What happened back there, Jude?" He slowly leveled a piercing gaze on her, which she did her best to avoid. She didn't exactly want to discuss her problems concerning Rhys with her old professor. 

                "Nothing significant." She allowed herself a glance to discern how well her lie had worked. He wasn't buying it, she noticed. 

                "It must have been. You looked like you were about to run—again," he continued blandly. "Was it the Ministry?" he questioned her with an odd expression. He knew that a little intimidation from the Ministry wouldn't push her as far as leaving a place that she appeared to love. The old woman appeared as though she'd had only minimal warning that Jude was leaving her, and she seemed distraught at the idea of losing her. And the way Jude looked when she turned her back on the little shop where she'd lived—he could tell that she liked it there and was only leaving because it had become absolutely necessary.

                "No," she replied dispassionately. "It wasn't that." She appeared somewhat resentful at the thought. She took a deep breath. There was really no point in discussing this, she thought. It wouldn't change the fact that she'd broken the heart of the only person she'd ever truly loved. 

                "So, then it was because of that fellow you lived with." He smiled a devious smile. 

She looked incredulous. How the hell did he know? She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Her eyelids were starting to feel heavy and she suddenly realized how tired she was. It had been one rough day, she reminded herself. 

                "I didn't 'live with' him." She feigned mild consternation at the implication. "We were flat mates and friends, that's all." She set her cup back on the table and stared at the flames. "Besides, how do you know all of this?" 

                "That old woman told me everything when I said I was looking for you. She was quite upset." 

                "Well, that's not my fault. I never asked her to give a damn." 

_This was insane_, she rationalized with herself—now she was blaming Adda for everything that had happened. Why couldn't she just accept the fact that she'd messed up and allowed two people to become so close to her that when it became necessary to push them away, they made her feel guilty about it. She hung her head wearily. "I let them get a little attached—it was a stupid mistake. But I really thought it could work." She looked up. He was staring at her in a thoughtful manner.

"Don't say it," she said in a warning tone. 

                "What?" He feigned innocence. He knew very well that she'd fallen in love with some chap and had tricked herself into believing that she could run from who she was forever. And when she'd found out that it was impossible to make that lie come true, she'd chosen the safe way out. She'd pushed everyone away—tried to hide behind stony indifference. But even those as tough as Jude had their breaking point. He tried hard to fight the urge to say 'I told you so.' 

"I won't say it. It's just…well, I tried to warn you, Jude. I didn't want to see this happen to you." His voice testified to his earnestness, and Jude knew he was only concerned for her. She appreciated it, but this wasn't helping her one bit. What she really needed was to forget about everything long enough to fall asleep. She yawned, then notice a pleased smile cross his face.

                "What did you put in it?" she questioned him, casting a suspicious glare on the cup of tea that she'd just drained. Now she understood why she was having trouble staying awake when lack of sleep had never bothered her in the slightest before. 

                "Jude, you look terrible." 

She knew she probably looked worse than that. On good days, she'd always looked worn and tired. Today was so far from being a good day, and she thought she must look at least half as bad as she felt. 

"You can't blame me for trying to help just a little, can you?" He tried to placate her indignation with a well-meaning smile. "I'm surprised you lasted this long, I made the potion a little on the strong side—I know you've grown immune to most of the weaker ones. You'd best get off to bed, now before you pass out in one of the corridors." He rose from the chair by the fire and walked over to where she was still sitting. Her shoulders were slumped and her head drooped a little. She looked absolutely wretched. He retrieved his book and retreated to his desk, as she stood wearily to leave. He was glad that she was here, even if she was less than thrilled to be so.

 She smiled a little—no matter how bad things got, she knew this would always be a sanctuary for her. She got to her feet and made her way to the door, stumbling only a little. He watched her cross the room, a little shaky at first, and was satisfied that she would find her way back to her room on her own. He resumed his seat behind his desk and continued his work.

***

                _"No!" The child shielded her eyes, not wanting to see her Master finish off the tiniest member of the small family. The green flash was blinding. There was a noise like an explosion and she felt the house rock beneath her feet. She cringed at the baby's cries mingled with another's cry. Was it her Master? She peeked out from under one arm she had flung around her face. What she saw through the small space she'd allowed her eyes to wander terrified her. Lord Voldemort no longer loomed menacingly over the tiny child, but lay at the foot of the bed. She unwrapped her small arms from her face and chanced a full look at the scene. He was, in fact, lying on the floor as the child on the bed wailed. She got to her feet, a little shaky, but managed to walk over to the baby. A cut was bleeding freely on its forehead, but other than that, it seemed unharmed. Her Master, however, was not moving. She bent down and touched the prone form of the one person she believed was beyond death's reach. He did not give a single sign that signified that life remained within. As she continued to stare at the body, she heard her name whispered behind her. She spun quickly to face the sound. A cloud was hovering just out of reach—a sort of transparent, misty green. _

_                "Child, you must continue my work. Kill the child, then help me to regain my former self." It was her Master's voice coming from the spectral cloud. So He wasn't dead, was He? She was confused and didn't know what to do. She couldn't kill the poor child who'd lost both parents at their hands, and she wasn't sure that she should help her Master if she wanted the child to live. "Child, did you hear me?" The house rattled as the cloud grew impatient. _

_                "No! I won't help you! You lie!" She ran to the bed where the child was lying and scooped him up in her arms. She didn't know what the spectral form of her former Master was capable of, but she didn't want to find out. The cloud, however, was between her and her only escape. She shifted the child, freeing her left hand. She raised it to the green mist and shouted "Expelliarmus". _

_Not sure if her disarming spell had worked, she ran for the door anyway. Almost instantly, she felt the floor shake unstably under her feet as she took the stairs two at a time, running as fast as her little legs would allow. The child was heavy, but she wouldn't loosen her grasp on him. The house began to fall around her in flaming pieces. She raced for the shattered front door and as she passed through it into the cool evening air, she turned to see the house fall in smoldering ruins._

_                Not sure where to go, but not wanting to stick around to see if the spirit-cloud of her former Master had been destroyed, she looked for a place to hide with her little burden. A thick hawthorn bush lined the road. There she thought she would have a good view of the house and the road, and she, along with the child would be out of sight of both. She gently set the child down on the ground under the coarse and tangled brambles and climbed in next to him. The baby was eerily silent. She checked to make sure he was still breathing and, to her relief, found that he was. The cut from his head was still bleeding, but she could not do anything to help that. _

_                She watched the wreckage of the house smolder for a few minutes more, when she heard a low rumble from the distance. Peeking around the thick foliage of the hawthorn, she saw a motorcycle alight on the road, several yards away. "A flying motorcycle?" she thought, beholding the odd sight from the safety of her hiding place. The figure on the flying motorbike abandoned it in the street and ran for what was once a charming cottage. Upon reaching the lawn, the figure fell to his knees in despair. Jude watched as the person deteriorated into uncontrolled sobs. Then, as if a thought had struck the person, he rose to his feet and began to frantically search through the still-burning ruins. This family must have been important to this him, the child concluded, and could probably help this child. _

_"Stay quiet, okay. I'll be back with some help, I promise." The child grasped her small finger, but remained quiet, as if in shock. She pulled her finger away and crawled out of the thicket. The figure continued to search as she approached. It was a few moments before he noticed a small child in black robes and shortly cropped blond hair bemusedly watching his efforts._

_                "Did you see what happened here?" the man asked frantically and walked quickly over to her. He knelt in front of her and grabbed her by the arms. She reluctantly nodded. His eagerness was a little unsettling, and his eyes were wild with hope and panic, giving him a somewhat crazed look, which was not helped by the wild tangles of black hair that framed his face. "Where are they?" He shook the child, frantically willing her to reveal everything she knew immediately. _

_                "They are dead," she said, almost robotically._

_                "Dead?" The man looked devastated. "And the child?" he questioned, but for reasons honorable or sinister, she could not discern. She wouldn't tell him until she could figure out his intentions for coming here. She remained silent. "Where is he?" he yelled, losing his patience with the little girl. Her eyes widened in fear. Just then, a hand fell on the man's shoulder. _

_                "Let her go, Sirius." The man looked sufficiently startled, as did the child. She hadn't seen anyone else approach. Yet a man that was considerably larger than any other man she'd ever seen had come up behind them both with out detection. The man with the disheveled black hair released the frightened child from his grasp. _

_                Sirius. She'd heard that name before, but could not think of when. _

_                "They're dead. They're dead," Sirius repeated over and over, staring at the ashes of the house. _

_                "Not all of them," the child spoke, surprising both of the men. _

_                "Who's alive, little one?" the giant man bent down to talk to Jude. For some reason, she felt that she could trust this one implicitly, unlike the other man who was now pacing like a caged animal. _

_                "The baby," she told him in a quiet tone, hoping that the other man would not overhear her._

_                "Harry's alive?" The black haired man stopped pacing and hurried over to the others. "Where is he?" he bellowed at the child. She pressed her lips together and gave the man a hard look. _

_                "Calm down, Sirius. Is the baby alrigh'?" The larger man asked the little girl this question and was answered almost immediately with a nod. "Can I see him?" the man asked of her after the last question was answered. She looked back up to the other, more suspicious person standing over her. He understood her concerns. Sirius must have frightened her sufficiently before he'd shown up. But he had to see the child, he had to take him to Dumbledore. She looked for assurance  that they were both trustworthy. "It's alrigh', you can trust us." He shot Sirius a warning glance. _

_                "Wait here," she ordered in a manner that suggested that she was accustomed to giving people demands and having them followed. She backed away slowly, keeping her eyes on the two men. When she reached the hawthorn bush, she crawled back under it and returned from beneath it with a baby in her arms. She walked slowly back to the others with the child. _

_                "Did you bring him out of the house?" The large man was looking bemusedly at the little child in front of him, clearly astonished. _

_She nodded proudly. _

_"What's your name?" _

_She looked a little startled at the question, wondering whether it was prudent or not to give away this information. _

_"Well," the large man began, understanding that she wasn't about to answer to a stranger, " my name's Hagrid. And this here's Sirius Black. We're friends of the people who used to live here." As he said this, he jerked a thumb at the destroyed house. She looked away, feeling more than a little guilty for her part in that destruction. _

_                "I'm Jude." She noticed a hint of recognition cross both of their faces. _

_                "Well, Jude, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take little Harry, here, away from you." _

_As he reached out his hands to receive the child, Jude instinctively pulled the baby closer to herself. She didn't want to give him over to just anyone. Apparently, he had many powerful enemies. _

_"I won't hurt him, I promise you. I have orders to take him to Dumbledore—you know who that is, don't you?" She nodded her head. She'd heard enough about him to know that he was the only serious threat to her Master's power. If this child would be safe with anyone, it would be Dumbledore. She let the man take the baby. Her arms dropped limply by her side as she watched the man stand with the child and turn to the other man. _

_"I have to take him, Sirius. I have my orders, but you can hold him if you like before I go." The man consented and took the child. He looked as if he would cry. _

_Hagrid bent down and took her hand in his. "Thank yeh for lookin' after him. It must have been hard to stand up to yer master like yeh did." The child looked somewhat startled and began to back away, as if to flee. "Yes, I know who yeh are. And you're just the person Dumbledore needs to speak with. You know what happened here—what happened to your master." _

_She didn't actually know what had destroyed her Master, however, just that He was gone. She continued to stare at the man as he spoke. "Will you come with me and help me take Harry to Dumbledore?" _

_She nodded. She had nowhere else to go and the Ministry would be hunting her Master and herself soon, and she didn't want to be left here with the man she'd heard mentioned before but couldn't peg. Either way, he was suspicious, and she knew if she thought long enough about it, then her suspicions might be validated. Anyway, it was never a good thing to be recognized by her. He took the child back from the other man, and muttered an apology for having to separate him from his godson, but that it was for the child's safety. Godson? Jude thought about that for a moment and then remembered her Master's servant, Peter Pettigrew. He was a simpering and sniveling little weasel of a man and Jude had never liked nor trusted him. He had mentioned once that he was friends with the Potters and had framed the whole plot for hunting down that family, with a little help from a friend of his—Sirius Black, a man that was trusted in every matter of the family's and was even the godfather to their young son. It all made sense now. No wonder she distrusted him—he'd been in on the plot, however unwittingly or voluntarily. She looked upon him with a whole new dislike as Hagrid took her small hand in his and led her away from the scene with the baby tucked securely in the crook of his other arm. Sirius watched them for a few moments, when suddenly roused from his reverie. _

_                "Take my bike, Hagrid. I won't be needing it for a while." He sounded mournful as he watched them go. So he was planning on sticking around and letting the Aurors come for him? He was probably feeling immensely guilty for his part in his friends' murders and didn't care one way or the other. Or maybe he was going to make a run for it. Jude mused on these questions for the entire trip on the flying motorbike to a small town in Surrey, where they landed. The baby had fallen asleep, but she remained awake, even though it was late. The cool night air of October would have made it impossible for anyone to sleep outside—especially for a child that rarely slept and had never been on a flying motorbike before. _

_                When they landed in the road before a row of orderly, uniform little houses, Jude immediately spotted two people in funny clothes milling about the lawn of the house nearest to her—even though it was dark outside and someone had snuffed all of the street lamps. An old man and somewhat younger woman watched them as Hagrid dismounted the bike with the baby they had been expecting and a little girl they had not. She followed a little behind the large man, not really knowing what to expect from these people, although they looked nice—meaning, not the type that she was used to meeting on a daily basis. She hung back a bit while Hagrid handed the child to the old man in purple robes and half-moon glasses. Jude didn't hear most of what they discussed, but was aware that the subject turned upon herself when the old woman's eyes snapped  from Hagrid and the baby to rest upon her. The old man continued to talk to Hagrid, then moved with the child to the doorstep of the tidy house, where he placed the child and a note of explanation. Hagrid began to sniffle and the old man spoke in reassuring tones to placate him. _

_                "It's not really goodbye, Hagrid." This man had a long, white beard and hair and spoke as if he was wiser than his many years revealed. This must be Dumbledore—but why is he abandoning the child at the house of strangers? It didn't make sense—the child should stay with Dumbledore where he would be safe. Voldemort was not dead and still out there somewhere, Jude was sure of that. And she was also certain that he would not stop until either he or the child was fully destroyed. Jude was about to voice her opinion when the old man turned to her. "I assure you the child will be quite safe. This is his family and it is in his best interest that he stay here, for now." He smiled kindly at her and she somehow believed what he said implicitly, yet doubt remained about the child remaining here. However, his words assured her that he was only looking out for the safety and well being of this baby, and if that included leaving him here, Jude would not argue._

_                "You must be Jude." The old man smiled at her as he walked to where she was standing. "The child servant of Voldemort and possessor of certain special abilities?" _

_She bit her lip, not wanting to willingly give up any information about herself—even though this man obviously knew her. She fought the urge to run away, but her curiosity rooted her to the spot. _

_"What happened to your master tonight?" Dumbledore bent down so that he was eye level with the child._

_                She shrugged her shoulders and thought it would be best to be silent for the moment. But he waited on an answer and she felt compelled to tell him everything. "He died, I think. The curse backfired. I saw His body and it was dead, but I think He's still out there as a spirit or ghost or something." As the words came spilling out, she noted how ridiculous she must sound. She didn't know what had happened and had no clue how to explain it. "He's not gone. He asked me to kill the baby and help Him back to His body. But I took the baby and ran instead." The child now looked frightened, as if only now the full weight of her decisions had hit her. Her eyes widened and began to dart back and forth, as if she were frantically searching for something that was not there. She fell silent, not willing to incriminate herself further. _

_                "You obviously have no family and no where to go." Dumbledore rose to his feet as he spoke. "Would you like to come back to the school and learn to make a good use of your skills?" His eyes twinkled and he smiled invitingly, making his invitation all the more enticing. She knew that if she went with Dumbledore, she would be safe from her Master's anger, and if she ran now, Voldemort or His various minions, with whom she had never been on the kindest terms, would hunt her down in no time._

_                "But Headmaster," the old woman spoke for the first time. "The term has already begun." _

_                "Minerva, surely you would grant me this small concession." He looked back at the woman. She fidgeted at his words, but consented._

_                "It is highly unorthodox, but if you insist." She pressed her lips into a fine line. "You'll have trouble with the Ministry over this, and possibly with the Board," she warned._

_                "That will be dealt with when the time comes."_

_                "Well, I must be getting this bike back to young Sirius Black." Hagrid sniffed and made his way back to the flying motorcycle. Jude doubted if he would find Mr. Black at the shambles of his friends' house, but she remained silent. He waved to her as the motorbike rose into the air._

_                "Well, Minerva. We'd best return as well." He took Jude's hand in his as the other woman slowly transformed into a tabby cat and slunk away into the night. So, she's an Animagus, as well. The old man roused her from her thoughts as he turned to the doorway where the baby was sleeping soundly. "Good Luck, Harry Potter." With a pop, they disappeared from the silent street._

_***_

She sat up in the large four-posted bed in the middle of her orderly room and rubbed her head. The dream had lasted longer this time, moving from Voldemort's first appearance in the little house, all the way to when she'd arrived with Dumbledore at Hogwarts. It had never gone that far before. She wondered if it was healthy to have dreams about past events over and over again—or if she was slowly going crazy. Why had it lasted this long, though? Usually she woke up screaming when her former Master cast the dreadful curse on the small child. Then, suddenly, she remembered that Professor Snape had given her something to help her sleep. Whatever it was, it must have been strong—she hadn't slept this long in years and she had a pounding headache as if she'd had a hangover without any of the fun of actually getting drunk. 

                She sighed and climbed out of bed, sliding into her slippers and pulling on her robe. Opening the door, she decided to fall back on her childhood hobby—exploring the dark and silent old house. She had already traversed every dark corridor and passage in the house when she hadn't been able to sleep in years past. 

                The black halls were chilly at night. She made her way to one of the rooms at the back of the house. Walking over to a large window, she looked out over the great expanse of the sea. The house—an old monastery built in the thirteenth century and then abandoned somewhere in the sixteenth—overlooked the English Channel from its perch on the sheer, white cliffs that made Dover famous. Like the cliffs, this house had once been a popular tourist attraction until the Victorian period, when the family finally concocted a tale for nosy intruders that the building had been destroyed and then had made the house unplottable and undetectable to those who were not expressly looking for it. An unsuspecting passerby on the Arch Cliff Road would merely see the open plain dropping steeply off to the rocky shore below—not an old and mysterious Benedictine monastery that had been home to a family of wizards for centuries. That family had been noted in the magical community for their obsession with secrecy—and the last remaining member of that family was no exception. Jude smirked. Professor Snape guarded his privacy with the utmost care—it was a kind of hobby with him. 

                The sun was beginning to rise in the east, gilding the crests of every wave with a golden glow. She still missed her place at Cambridge—Rhys especially—and regretted having to leave that life. But she belonged here now, where she was needed—even if it was the last place she wanted to be.


	8. All That You Can't Leave Behind

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including, but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended. All other characters and situations not clever enough to be the work of Ms. Rowling belong to the author of this tale.

Author's Note: Here we go, kids! The first chapter involving _The Sorcerer's Stone_ has finally been written. I have been dreading writing these chapters in which I fit a new main character into the plot of Rowling's books. I hope I have done a decent job of staying true to the original work. Enjoy.

Chapter Eight: All That You Can't Leave Behind

'You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been 

_A place that has to be believed to be seen_

_You could have flown away _

_A singing bird in an open cage_

_Who will only fly, only fly for freedom'_

_U2, Walk On_

                She set down the light load she was carrying and looked up at the steel and glass ceiling of King's Cross Station in the heart of London. The morning commuters bustled around her on their way to who knows where. The fall term was beginning at Cambridge and she wished that she could have been there instead. It would have been her final year. But, instead of taking her seat in one of the dusty, solemn halls of the university, she was preparing to board a magical train to a fantastical school for young wizards. She could have refused to go—Professor Snape was fairly persuasive, but she didn't doubt that she could have said no if she truly had wanted to. Looking around her, she wondered if she should have refused—if she should have simply ran like she'd planned to do. She was confident that she could have left everyone behind—she could have left everything, if she'd only had the strength and courage to keep on running. But maybe, she thought—that was exactly it—she was tired of running. 

                She sighed and picked up her bags again and headed for Platform Nine and Three-quarters. Passing through the barriers, she noted that she was sufficiently early to miss the hoards of students and parents that usually thronged here on September the First. Boarding the gleaming red locomotive, she realized that she was in stark contrast to those around her. The porters and other personnel looked like uniformed witches and wizards, while she was the picture of a Muggle. She shrugged her shoulders. All the children would be arriving dressed in the same fashion she was dressed in—the large numbers in which they would gather there required that they all look like Muggles, which was not that much different from how they would normally have dressed. Later, they would have to change into the uniform robes all students were required to wear. 

                She shoved open the door of a compartment toward the front that she hoped would be the least trafficked area of the train. Throwing her bags into one corner of the room, she took a seat by the window where she could already see people arriving as if from nowhere through the brick barrier. The crowds increased and grew noisier on the platform as children greeted classmates they hadn't seen for months and parents chatted about the summer holidays and how they were relieved for classes to begin. More students arrived by the minute and the train became crowded. Students had popped their heads in to see if her compartment was occupied already, and upon beholding an adult present, they quickly left in search of another seat. No one wanted to ruin their last hours of freedom before school began by spending them under the watchful eye of a grownup. She breathed a heavy sigh and returned her gaze to the platform. When had she become the boring adult?  

                Watching the brick barrier, she noticed a succession of redheads enter the magical platform. She narrowed her eyes at them. Could they possibly be related to Bill and Charlie? Did they even have other brothers and sisters? She thought about this for a few seconds more when another boy came through the barrier followed by the youngest redheaded boy. With shaggy black hair and round glasses, she knew this must be the son of the man she'd murdered—he looked exactly like him, only shorter and more youthful. This was the child that had turned her against everything she'd been taught—turned her against her Master, irrevocably. She felt guilty, almost sick, when she saw him. She'd orphaned this little boy when she was just ten years old. And now it was her duty to make sure that her former Master—she knew He was still out there waiting to finish His job—did not finish off the last little member of the Potter family.  She saw him mutter a few quick words to the woman—obviously the mother of all the redheaded children—and then board the train alone. So, he did not know the family and appeared to have no friends. But hadn't Dumbledore left him with relatives? Where were they? She continued to stare confusedly at the little boy who appeared to be as timid and self-conscious as she had been the first time she'd come to Hogwarts. As he stepped onto the train, she lost sight of him. Other students soon filed onto the train as parents waved goodbye. She was sure that Harry's parents would have been there to wave to their son proudly as he boarded the train for one of the most prestigious wizard schools in Europe, if they could have been there. And she was partly responsible for that. An aching knot had formed in her chest and she could hardly breath. She willed herself to get over this—there was no way that she could change what had happened—what she'd done—no matter how much she wanted to. 

                After a few more moments and a warning call from the conductor, the train began to move. She didn't know why Dumbledore felt it necessary to have her present on the train—Voldemort wouldn't attack the Hogwarts Express—it would be too easy. And He definitely wouldn't make a move on the Potter boy until He'd secured immortality once more—He wasn't a complete fool, after all. As far as Jude knew, the Stone was still safe in a vault buried in the caverns under Gringott's. Still, she had her orders, and even though she'd rather not spend an entire day in such close quarters with crowds of rowdy students, she did what she was told. Although she had her reservations about the whole situation in which she found herself now, she was going to remain silent and let things take their course—only intervening to avert major disasters. She knew very well that Dumbledore was being pressured into this by the Ministry, which was increasingly frustrated in their attempts to capture Voldemort and needed a quick fix to bolster public support. 

***

                "Ah, Ms. Elliot. It's good to see you again. This way." Professor McGonagall ushered Jude down a corridor from the large entryway of the castle. "Dumbledore wishes to see you before the feast." The severe woman smiled as she opened the door to the familiar office of her former Headmaster. "I wish I could stay and chat, too, but the First Years are waiting." At that, she bustled off down the hall toward the sound of the students entering the hall. Jude turned and went into the room. An old man with snowy white hair and long beard was seated at a desk, bent over a parchment he was examining. Before Jude had time to interrupt the old man's thoughts, she was startled by a weight on her shoulder. She looked up and saw a large, scarlet bird perched on her shoulder—Fawkes, the Headmaster's Phoenix. 

                "Hey, Fawkes." Jude stroked the bright plumage of the bird as it cooed beautiful music in her ear. "It's been a while hasn't it?"

                "It has." The old man had risen from his chair when she had spoken. He was now standing in front of her. "It's very nice to see you again, my dear. I've missed you." She allowed Dumbledore to embrace her as he had when she was a child. Even though the Headmaster was a rather short old man, Jude still remained a few inches shorter than himself. He, then, ushered her to a chair and resumed his seat behind the desk. "I would like to thank you for accepting the position on such a short and unexpected notice." He smiled wryly at her. She smiled back. "I am sorry if I have imposed upon you—which I'm sure I have—but, I am sure you understand that you being here was absolutely necessary to avoid the inevitable problems that would undoubtedly arise from Ministry involvement here." She couldn't hide a small snigger at that—the Ministry, as far as she was concerned was a walking blunder. 

                "Why didn't you just tell them no, Headmaster? I'm sure Fudge would not have gone against your wishes." Her brow wrinkled in confusion. 

                "Voldemort is after the Stone and once he has it, he will be after Harry," Dumbledore explained. "I want both under my supervision—where I can intervene if necessary. I cannot leave the school to protect the Stone, so it had to come to me. If the Ministry wants to try their hand at trapping Voldemort, they may try, but I doubt they will succeed. I merely want to be sure that he cannot get to the Stone or to Harry." At a look from Jude, Dumbledore knew exactly what was on her mind and headed her off at the pass. "Yes, I can assure Harry's and the other student's safety—with your help." He smiled. She knew why she was here—she owed the kid at least that much. 

There was a knock on the door. Dumbledore rose and greeted five people, four of which Jude was already familiar with. Hagrid and Professors Flitwick and Sprout greeted the Headmaster as Jude rose from her chair. "Well bless me, if it isn't Miss Elliot. How have you been, my dear." Tiny Professor Flitwick shook his former student's hand with alacrity. 

Jude smiled. "Fine, Professor. It's so good to see you again." As she spoke to her old Charms Professor, she felt a very large hand clap her on the back. She turned to see the giant Gamekeeper, Hagrid, beaming at her. "Hello, Hagrid." The large man enveloped her in a crushing embrace. 

"Didn't expect to see you again." He sniffled as if he were going to cry any minute. 

"Have you still got Fang?" She quickly tried to change the subject and he instantly cheered up.

"Yeah, but he's a bit bigger since you saw him last." If Hagrid enjoyed talking about anything, it was his animals—Jude knew this well. 

"I'll have to come by and see him." She smiled.  

"He'd like that. You always were one of his favorites." He moved to stand by Flitwick, creating a comical contrast in size. Dumbledore cleared his throat to gain the attention of the room. 

"We are a little short on time, so I'll get right to the point. I asked you all here to introduce the last member in our little plan. Most of you already know Miss Elliot, who will be here throughout the term to keep an eye on Harry Potter," he nodded in the direction of Professors Flitwick and Sprout and Hagrid. He then turned to Professor Snape, who was standing next to the only person Jude did not recognize out of the group. "However, I do not believe you have met Professor Quirrell." Dumbledore smiled and Jude walked over to shake the new professor's hand. 

"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Elliot." 

She smiled in what she hoped was an unoffending manner. The teacher had a bit of a stutter. He was young, but seemed as superstitious and nervous as an old woman—and he smelled strongly of garlic. She assumed it was all a symptom of his work with dark and frightening creatures, even though the thought of this jittery little chap fighting vampires and zombies was a bit hard to believe. "I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher here." 

"Professor Quirrell is very experienced in the Dark Arts. He has spent several years in Romania and Germany studying Vampires and is a very capable professor." Jude noticed the professor act a little sheepish at the praise his boss was lavishing on him. "He was on the search team the Ministry deployed to seek out the hiding place of Voldemort." 

"We had little success, however," the shy professor apologized. 

"Professor Quirrell, along with Professors Snape, Sprout, Flitwick, McGonagall—who must be absent from this meeting due to her responsibilities as Deputy Headmistress—and Hagrid have all had a part in setting up the protection around the Stone." 

"The Stone is here? Already?" Jude sounded shocked. She didn't expect it to be under the school's protection so soon and had hoped to have at least a few days to re-familiarize herself with the complex maze that was Hogwarts—even though its secrets were already more known to her than to most of the teachers here. She was prepared and she knew it—but the Stone's presence here seemed to throw a new urgency on the matter.

"Yes, the Stone is here. The vault at Gringott's was insufficient. We have devised a series of spells and enchantments to ensure its security." Jude held up a hand to stop the Headmaster. 

"I think it would be best if I knew as little about the Stone as possible." Her voice was firm and would brook no opposition. She didn't want to know what was protecting the Stone—it would give anyone the opportunity to use her to get to it and would cast suspicion on her should anything of the sort happen. Whatever Dumbledore and his collection of trustworthy and skilled staff had put in place, she was sure it would be sufficient. "All I need to know is where you've hidden it. I will have to know where I'm supposed to keep Harry away from." She smiled at her Headmaster.

"Very well, Miss Elliot." Dumbledore would respect her wishes—he knew her reasons for refusing to be given such information.  "It is located on the Third Floor in a locked corridor—I will make an announcement to all students to steer clear of this area this year. Well, we'd best be heading down to the Great Hall. We don't want to miss the Sorting Ceremony." They rose and left the office.

***

                Jude took a seat next to Hagrid at the far end of the table reserved for the teachers. She looked up at the ceiling that showed the inky expanse of the night sky illuminated by thousands of glittering stars and numerous glowing candles suspended in mid air. She had always loved the Great Hall, but was surprised at how different things looked from where the staff sat. She had become so accustomed to seeing things from a student's perspective. Then the door opened and Professor McGonagall marched dozens of nervous first years to the front of the beautifully magical hall. 

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted." McGonagall faced the group of first years and explained how they would be sorted into their Houses. Jude watched from her perch at the Head Table. She had always wondered what the hat said to the students when it was placed on their heads. She'd never had the opportunity to see a Sorting Ceremony until her second year—and she'd never participated in one. The first student called was Hannah Abbot, a shy and quiet looking girl who, not to anyone's surprise, was placed in Hufflepuff. She was followed by other first years, each joining one of the four House tables in their turn. When a blond boy was called by the name of Malfoy to take a seat on the stool and be sorted, Jude turned to Hagrid, who was sitting next to her. "Lucius Malfoy's son?" 

He nodded. "Looks jus' like him, don't he?" Jude nodded in her turn. Lucius had been one of Voldemort's most vehement supporters and servants—yet he was loyal to himself alone and had never hesitated to hide his hatred of Jude. The child swaggered with all the confidence and arrogance that came with his name. He was instantly sorted into Slytherin, and by the look on Harry's face, it was evident that they had already met. She'd have to keep an eye on young Mr. Malfoy. 

                After a few more students became Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, Jude heard Harry's name called. The dark haired boy timidly took the stool. Jude was surprised when a small wave of whispers rose at the sound of his name. So he was famous. This just kept getting better and better. No wonder Malfoy disliked the kid—but if he was anything like his father, he really didn't even need a reason. 

She narrowed her eyes and watched as the hat was placed on his head. It took quite a long time to announce its decision, which confused Jude. She thought for sure that he would instantly become a Ravenclaw—he looked like a smart kid. But if Jude had learned anything in her twenty years of existence, it was never to draw conclusions from someone's appearance—after all, she was a living example, wasn't she? She wondered what the hat could possibly have said to Harry? It hadn't taken nearly this long with the other students. And it had placed the boy in Gryffindor—the House reserved for those who valued bravery—or as Jude saw it, those who mindlessly wandered into danger without giving a single thought to what they were doing. Jude didn't mind taking risks—but she'd always believed that there should be a balance between the costs and benefits of being courageous. After all there was just a fine line separating the brave from the stupid. 

                Just then, Hagrid leaned over and whispered to Jude. "Gryffindor. Just like James." 

                "Who is James?" she replied, confused. 

                "He was Harry's father." He was clapping for the boy as he joined his House amongst the cheers of almost the entire room. Hagrid was obviously happy for the boy and had not regarded what he'd said to her with much importance. But at those words, Jude found it hard to breath. How long had it been since she'd murdered this boy's father, and only now had she ever heard his actual name. She realized that this is how Harry would find out about his parents and who they were—through random conversation and chance happenings—never by actually having known them. At that moment, Jude felt the immense weight of all of her past actions acutely. She hardly noticed the rest of the first years finish the ceremony and take their seats. Only the voice of the Headmaster succeeded in recalling her from her tormenting thoughts. 

                "Welcome," the Headmaster greeted his students with his arms opened wide, looking very pleased to see them all once more. Jude knew that this old man's passion was his students and their education as well as their safety—which reassured her immensely. He would not let anything happen to any of them if he could help it. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Only a few announcements before we begin. The Forbidden Forest is, as always off limits to every student." He gave a significant glare at two identical redheaded boys seated at the Gryffindor table who looked as if their only mission in life was to see how many detentions one could possibly earn in a school year. They, too, looked exactly like Bill and Charlie—more like Bill than Charlie, Jude mused. They were everywhere, these redheaded kids that looked as if they all belonged to a single, enormous, family.

"And the Third Floor corridor is strictly off limits to those who do not wish to die a most horrible death." The Headmaster did have a way with words Jude had to admit. If he was aiming at scaring the shit out of a bunch of kids, then he was definitely headed in the right direction. "And lastly, I would like to introduce Miss Jude Elliot, my new assistant." He beckoned Jude to stand and be acknowledged. She complied only hesitantly and returned to her seat instantly. As she sat, she noticed Harry casting a suspicious glance upon her. Had anyone told him yet of the danger he was in and just exactly who she was, as well as why she was there? She hoped not—this boy would have enough to deal with as it was. "Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" Sometimes she worried that the old man had finally cracked—genius was, after all, merely borderline insanity. "Thank you." The Headmaster returned to his seat amid enthusiastic applause. The feast had begun.

***

                After the students had been dismissed to their Common Rooms, Jude was lead to her room by a stout little house elf—one of the numerous servants employed by the school. Her room was a tidy and cozy place with a fire warmly crackling in the grate. Her bags had already been brought there for her and sat at the foot of a comfortable and inviting bed. She wished that she could simply crawl under the warm blankets and hide from her troubling thoughts until the morning, but she knew that was asking for the impossible. She would not be able to sleep a wink in this castle, knowing that Voldemort or one of His many thugs were waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. All they would need was a few moments of carelessness on her part and a little luck. But she didn't plan on being careless—not when the few people she actually gave a damn about were counting on her. She understood that it might be a very long time indeed, before she would allow herself to rest. She pulled on a sweater over her blouse and headed for the door. It would be nice to wander these halls again—but this time she wouldn't have to keep an eye out for Filch or Mrs. Norris. She allowed herself a satisfied smile and headed for the cold, dark and winding corridors and passages. 


	9. Three Heads Are Better Than One

 Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies including, but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. I am just twisting them to my evil purposes. No copyright infringement is intended, however, and no money is being made from this harmless little tale. All of the other characters that do not belong in Harry's world, but have been mercilessly shoved into the mix, belong to me—Jude, Rhys, Adda and Darcy—although others may pop up a little later.

Chapter Nine: Three Heads Are Better Than One

_'Blink and you miss a beat_

_Keep one of your eyes open at all times._

_The shit hasn't even begun to hit the fan._

_Consequence you'll see _

_Will be stranger than a gang of drunken mimes.'___

Incubus, Consequence 

                Tea was never Jude's particular favorite, but in the absence of strong coffee this would have to do. She sipped the warm liquid and yawned as she went through the owls her former Headmaster had just received. She wasn't just the assistant to the Headmaster in title alone, but in duty as well—that meant sorting mail. Wasn't there anything stronger than a mild Earl Grey in this castle? She hadn't truly slept since the first night she'd arrived at the Abbey, and she hadn't closed her eyes for more than a blink since she'd come to Hogwarts. Oh, well. She'd operated on less sleep than this before and she'd never missed a step then and didn't intend to now. The entire stack of letters she'd sifted through were letters from the Ministry—or more accurately, from Fudge. She shook her head at the incompetence the Ministry had sunk to in the last five or so years. At least under Howard Jennings, the former Minister and complete asshole, the magical government had been run efficiently and was not comprised of bumbling idiots and the like. 

                After placing the letters on the Headmaster's desk for him to reply to, she picked up the Daily Prophet and was immediately stunned by the headline that ran under the heading. _Gringott's__ Break-in Latest_ was the urgent title that had caught her attention. So, Dumbledore's infallible instinct was right again, she mused. He knew that the wizard's bank was not safe enough to keep whomever Voldemort was bidding to steal the Stone out, so he'd removed it and placed it in the castle—and just in time, it seemed. This meant that the Dark Lord was still trying and would not give up the chase so soon, and now His next target would be here at the school. But how would He be able to break into the school without being noticed? There were more magical protections around the castle than Gringott's itself—it would be no easy feat. She enumerated the possibilities until she'd remembered she was due in the Great Hall minutes ago. 

                In the Great Hall, students had gathered for lunch, which was informal and overseen by only a few teachers on a regular basis. Today, it was her duty, along with Professors McGonagall and Sprout, to make sure all rules were observed while in the Hall. After only two weeks of working here, Jude had become comfortable in her routine—and it was hard to believe that it had already been two weeks. She'd expected time to creep by in her anticipation for the year and all of its associated troubles to be over and she could once again return to Cambridge—and Rhys. But she rarely allowed herself such hope, even though he was constantly in her thoughts. She sighed and returned to the stack of papers she'd brought to keep herself occupied. Before she allowed her mind to become absorbed in her task, she gave the Hall a thorough inspection with her eyes and, to her satisfaction, saw Harry seated with his friends—mindless of any danger he might be in. She'd done her best to blend into the background here—even to the point of wearing robes again—black, of course—although she usually wore it over slacks in typical Muggle fashion, or even jeans on weekends, much to the torment of Professor McGonagall. She looked the part of a member of the staff enough not to attract too many questions. And her watch over Harry didn't require that she had to actually speak to the boy—which she hadn't done as of yet and didn't plan on ever doing. She always made sure she knew where he was at all times and had already become familiar with his schedule sufficiently. She wasn't worried—she knew Voldemort would not strike yet, but would allow enough time for everyone's guard to drop and then He would make His move. The only problem she couldn't decipher was how He would do it. She looked up from the documents to see Malfoy and his two thugs harassing a boy seated close to Harry at the Gryffindor table, but before she'd even had a thought to restore order to the scene, McGonagall was already on her way to defuse the situation. McGonagall hadn't changed a bit since she was in school here, and it was an oddly reassuring fact. Malfoy and the two large and stupid-looking boys left, defeated by the severe Transfigurations teacher. Jude had no idea why Malfoy was so antagonistic toward Harry, or why Harry felt it necessary to encourage his hatred. It wasn't significant, anyway, Jude told herself—just a fruitless House rivalry between the celebrity figure and one with power and influence. Draco didn't strike her as an evil carbon copy of his father, even if he still looked up to the man. No, he seemed as if he could be changed, or influenced. All was not lost for him, Jude guessed and had made up her mind to talk to him—later.

***

                The halls were dark and cold as usual in the castle. In the two weeks that she'd been there, little had happened to concern her regarding the Stone, or Harry's safety. The only people she'd seen in the corridors late at night that were not members of the staff were the two redheaded, mischievous twins that she had seen at the Gryffindor table during the Sorting Ceremony. It turned out that they were, in fact, Weasleys and notorious for pranks and the current record holders for the most detentions earned in a single year. This information was proudly given upon her questioning the duo, which had been prowling around the Third Floor Corridor. Apparently, Dumbledore's cautions in his opening speech regarding the restricted Third Floor Corridor had done more to pique the curiosity of the two boys, rather than terrifying them into staying away from the third floor altogether. She sent them back to their Common Room without taking any points from their House, nor did she give them detentions.  However, she did warn them again not to come near this door—Dumbledore's speech may have sounded like a joke, but the fact of the matter was that this was serious—not a game. Whether they actually believed her, or were merely grateful that she'd not taken any points from them, they left quietly and had not come back. 

                She checked the door to make sure that it was locked—which it was. As she rattled the handle roughly, she heard a low growl from within. What was in there, she had no clue and she didn't want to find out. As the low, rumbling growls died down, Jude thought she'd heard footfalls at the other end of the hall. Pausing to strain for the sound again, she was rewarded with the sound of more steps that sounded like the maker was in a hurry, yet desperate to remain quiet. She made her way slowly down the hall, her attempts at silence much more effective than whoever she was pursuing. Walking through a door that remained unlocked, she found herself in the Trophy Room. The moonlight from the high windows glinted off of the polished surfaces of the gleaming cases filled with cups and plaques of all shapes and sizes. A shimmer of moonlight on blonde-white hair alerted her to the presence of the person she was pursuing. It was Draco Malfoy. Jude allowed herself a small smile—not even two weeks into his first year and he was already up to no good. 

                She moved silently behind him, unnoticed by the boy, who seemed to be looking for something or someone—seemingly pleased not to find anyone here. When he turned to look around the room once more, he was startled to see another person standing in a small square of light from the narrow window. His features betrayed surprise and fright only for a brief moment, before twisting into an angry sneer. 

                "What in the hell do you mean by sneaking up on people in the middle of the night?" The boy spat at Jude. He was a lot like his father, she thought. But Lucius, even though he'd tried, had never managed to intimidate her. So, why did his son think it would work now? 

                "You're up awfully late, Mr. Malfoy." Jude leaned casually against a trophy case holding a few miscellaneous awards. She folded her arms and evenly met Draco's harsh glare. "Talk," she ordered the boy, who, in his turn, crossed his arms and leaned back against the stone wall. He was not used to following orders and was not about to begin now. She narrowed her eyes but remained silent.

                "I know exactly who you are, Elliot. My father told me all about you—you're a coward who'd betray anyone in a second." The boy seemed a little disconcerted when these words had no effect on the woman standing between him and the only door out of the room. Still, he'd decided that only a little more pressure was needed, and then she'd crack like an over-boiled egg. "If you think I'm afraid, you've seriously misjudged. You're nothing but a little girl who ran when things got tough." She let him keep talking, knowing that if she gave him enough rope, he'd eventually hang himself without her help. "Everyone that matters knows about that and they won't overlook your betrayal. When things change, you'll wish the Ministry had sent you to Azkaban, where people like you belong." He pushed himself off the wall forcefully and walked a few paces forward, but was quelled in his enthusiasm by a quiet smile that played across Jude's face. 

                She, too, took a few steps toward him. "If I were you, I would refrain from shouting your father's philosophy too loudly. However much he and his kind," she said this with a small, but disdainful snarl, "wish for 'things to change', they won't—not if I can help it." At this, the boy allowed himself a laugh.

                "What do you think you can do to stop them?" he questioned her with unbridled arrogance. "You think Dumbledore and the rest trust you to keep that from happening? They don't trust you at all—haven't you ever heard the saying 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'? Dumbledore has you here just so he can keep an eye on you." He was satisfied to see her momentarily flinch at his words. This gave him courage to continue. "Does Potter know who and what you are?" He smiled, as she looked visibly taken aback at this. She let her hands fall at her side and she felt numb with shock, wondering if this boy would have the guts to tell Harry any or all of her past deeds. He was surely familiar with the most incriminating ones.

                However, she quickly pulled herself together. "My advice to you, Mr. Malfoy is not to spread your father's ideas around as if they were your own. It has been my experience that our fellow students do not look to kindly upon those of us with certain affiliations." She gave the boy a significant look and was gratified to see him swallow hard. "Besides, you wouldn't want your father to get into hot water because his son couldn't keep his mouth shut, would you?" She smiled sweetly as he scowled at her. "By the way, what were you doing up here in the middle of the night, anyway?" She was now standing only a few feet from the boy, who seemed to relax a little, no longer threatened by her presence. 

                "Dueling Potter, and he's late." He crossed his arms and glanced at his rather expensive looking watch. 

                "Where's your wand, then?" She noticed his casual air falter as he realized he'd been found out. "You weren't going to duel him were you? You were going to set him up." She shook her head. "What time should I expect Filch to be by here?" She had to admit with a laugh, this kid was amusing at least.

                "Ten minutes." He smiled mischievously. She wasn't as daft as he'd previously suspected. He'd have to keep clear of her from now on, he mentally noted. 

                She sighed. "Well, then I guess you'd better get back to the dungeons before you have to explain to Professor Snape why you lost his House ten points." She moved aside so he could retreat through the door in which he had come. She'd instantly liked the kid, even though he chorused his father's dogma like a broken record. It was because he simply did not know better and all fathers were heroes to boys that age, she assumed. He was as angry and hostile as she was then and he reminded her of the child that she had been. She couldn't blame him for hating Harry—he had friends that admired him not because of his wealth or power, but because he was a genuinely good kid. And everything seemed to come easy to him—Jude had to admit, that if she were in Draco's shoes, she'd do the same thing. She shook her head and decided to return to the locked door and check the halls again. She hoped to head Harry off before he was ambushed by Filch. 

                After several minutes of searching, Jude had wandered far away from the locked door that she had been watching for two weeks. She had hoped to find the boy Malfoy had tricked into breaking curfew, but feared that Filch and his mangy cat had stumbled upon them first. She was about to search a tapestry-lined room when the sound of several running feet informed her that someone—or several people were fleeing from something. She made her way back to the locked door just in time to see four students—one with distinguishably frizzy brown hair—running as fast as they could from the door, yelling frantic statements like "What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" Jude ran quickly to the door. It was still locked, but beyond the thick wood she could hear several booming barks. What ever was in there—Hagrid's doing, she supposed—those kids had seen it. She took several secret passages that she was sure only Filch and the Weasley twins knew to Gryffindor tower. Emerging from behind a dusty tapestry, Jude beat the four students back to the entrance to their common room. She was gratified that she'd guessed correctly that the four were Harry and his friends—they'd obviously tried to hide from Filch in the locked door on the third floor, but found it was already occupied. She'd had no problem finding the entrance to the tower common room before they did—she knew this castle inside and out, including the common room entrances to every House. She watched as Harry shouted "Pig snout" at the fat lady in the portrait. It instantly swung open and the four clambered in to the room and out of sight. Jude breathed a relieved sigh when Harry and the other students were back safely in their dormitory. Their encounter with the monster behind the locked door was too close of a call for Jude's liking. If she could help it, it would be the last. She trudged tiredly back to the third floor.

***

                "Fluffy?" Jude knew Hagrid had an odd appreciation for the wild and untamable beasts of the world—a sick obsession, really—yet this seemed to be on a whole new level of derangement. She hadn't mentioned the events that had occurred two months prior—she'd never had a good reason to and, in any case, she didn't want to get Harry and his friends, or Draco into trouble over it. And that had been the last 'incident' to date. But now that Hagrid had brought it up, she was rather curious as to what the hell was behind door number two.

                "Yeah," he answered unabashedly at her sarcasm. "He's got to have a name, don't he?" She eyed him skeptically then let her eyes fall to her lap where Hagrid's large boarhound was drooling all over Jude's black robe. 

                "You should have been named Fluffy, Fang." She tousled the immense folds of skin that cascaded around the enormous dog's face. He seemed to be enjoying this, so Jude continued. "That, that…whatever it is should have had your name." 

                "It's just a dog." Hagrid shook his head as he prepared tea. 

                "Just a dog?" Jude raised her eyebrows at that. "A thing that weighs more than the Hogwarts Express and has three heads is not just a dog, Hagrid." She looked up and was a bit surprised to see him smiling proudly.

                "I know. He's great, isn't he?" He beamed like a proud parent. Jude simply shook her head.

                "Yeah, he's wonderful. Every household should have one." Well, she had to admit—she was rather relieved—Voldemort or anyone else, for that matter, would have a rough time getting past something as vicious as Fluffy. Jude doubted that the thing could even be knocked out by the most powerful stunning charm she could think of. And now that the kids had seen what was locked behind the door, she was sure that they would no longer be lurking around the third floor. She resumed patting Fang on the head, as he'd not ceased to drool on her trousers. Oh, well. She had made this visit to Hagrid expressly to see the dog that had been such a good companion to her when she had little else to call friend. She'd always enjoyed visiting Hagrid when she was a little girl—his hut was always filled with the most interesting objects: crossbows, dragon scales, old pictures of Professor McGonagall when she was her age. She looked out the window on which a carved pumpkin was seated. She'd almost forgotten that it was Halloween—one of her favorite holidays to spend at the castle. She looked forward to seeing the beautifully decorated Great Hall this evening and smiled as she thought of the impression it would make on the First Years. Yet, she could never fully share in all of the happiness of the day—it had been clouded by the memories of what had happened that night many years ago, now. On Halloween, ten years ago, she'd murdered a little boy's father and did little to save the life of his mother. The gloomy expression returned to her face, despite her efforts to enjoy her visit with Hagrid. She knew that he'd invited her here to cheer her up today. He knew what today signified for her—what was on her mind at this very moment. He reached down and took her small hand in his enormous one and gave it a squeeze. 

                "You can't change what happened, Jude. But what matters is that you're here now when Harry needs you—that says a lot and I'm sure James and Lily are grateful that you're looking after their child when they can't." She smiled a sad smile at Hagrid. She knew he was only trying to help but he was making her feel worse. It was her fault that they couldn't be here to protect their son themselves, and no amount of rationalization would ever make that guilt go away. She sighed, allowing her shoulders to sag. The only consolation that came that day was the reminder that, so far, she'd done her duty well and Harry was safe for now.

***

                Thousands of glowing Jack-o-lanterns filled the air, illuminating a ceiling that mimicked the stormy sky outside. Bats fluttered through the maze of pumpkins and candles, completing the scene. Jude breathed in the delicious smell of baked pumpkin and candy of all sorts. It was a smell that reminded her distinctly of Halloween and of the Great Hall decorated so festively. She did the customary check of the room and instantly found Harry seated among the Gryffindors, chatting happily with the redheaded boy he was constantly in company with. Although she thought it strange not to see the girl with the fluffy brown hair, as she usually was not far from them, Jude thought little of it. Maybe the boys had finally done something to tick her off and she was sitting with other friends. Jude returned her attention to Dumbledore as he said a few words and then called for the feast to begin. 

                Jude had only been chatting with Hagrid for a few moments before the great oak doors of the hall burst open. Jude instinctively jumped to her feet, but was surprised only to see Professor Quirrell. She watched with a furrowed brow as he ran to the head table, stopping only when he reached the Headmaster. The nervous, little man looked terrified, with his turban askew and a frantic expression. Jude's eyes were fixed on the scene and she strained to hear every word of what was said. 

                "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know." The man collapsed immediately in a heap on the floor. The entire room had heard every word of the message, and instant chaos ensued as hundreds of students began to panic, shouting and pushing for the door. 

                Dumbledore's booming voice immediately restored order to the scene, as he called for silence. "Prefects," he commanded, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!" Jude was astounded at the level of control the Headmaster had over his students. Everyone obeyed instantly. Jude quickly scanned the room once more and was relieved to see Harry by the side of the Gryffindor Prefect, who looked, oddly enough, like another Weasley. The students filed out of the Great Hall as Dumbledore commanded the teachers to follow him to the dungeons. Once Jude was sure Harry was safe, she made her way around to the front of the floor where the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was lying. 

                "Some expert in Dark Creatures," she thought. "This guy meets up with a troll and instead of knocking it out, he runs like a little girl." It didn't make much sense to her. She knew this man was nervous and afraid even of his shadow, but didn't he have a reputation for besting dozens of trolls, zombies and vampires? She shook her head and nudged the prone form in an attempt to rouse him. He stirred and she helped him to his feet.

                "Come on," she said, tugging his arm in the direction of the door, "we have to get to the third floor." She hoped she was not too late already and that Professor Snape had had the same idea as she had. She hoped that he would be there now, at the locked door. This troll getting into the school was no accident—Jude would bet good money that it was let in as a distraction. 

                "Why are we going to the third floor?" Jude looked at Quirrell, who despite having fainted at the sight of a troll, now appeared to be annoyed with Jude's urgency. 

                "This troll was a distraction. Whoever let that thing in is headed there to get the Stone. We have to head them off," she explained in an exasperated voice. 

                "We?" he asked, trying to wrangle his arm from her grasp.

                "Yes, we," she replied shortly. "I need all the help I can get." She couldn't believe how much of a fight this guy was putting up. "I've been thinking—if Voldemort wanted to steal the Stone right out from under our noses, He wouldn't just waltz in here and take it. Neither would He send one of His thugs to do it—He'd have someone already working for Him on the inside." She talked rapidly as they climbed the stairs—she couldn't believe it had taken her this long to figure out. But now the problem was, who was in league with Voldemort? Jude had no guesses to offer. 

                "And how are you so sure about that—maybe he does plan to walk in one night and take it." He looked skeptical. 

                "Because I know VoldemortK," Jude replied, not meeting the other man's eyes as she said this. They had gained the top of the last flight of stairs and ran toward the door.

                "So do I—I tracked him for three years across Eastern Europe, just to discover none of us knew as much about him as we thought." 

                "Well, I do." She was being stubborn and she knew it. Why would something that seemed so obvious to her be so doubtful to this man? She had to explain. "I know how He operates, how He thinks—I used to be His student, His protégé." She chanced a look at the Professor's face—he looked a little stunned but not much. She quickened her pace. The door was just around the next corner.

                "Yes, I've heard about you." He allowed a small smile. "So, then, who do you suspect as the insider?" His questioning no longer held that note of skeptical disbelief, but one of suspicion and his familiar nervousness. "Do you think there are any obvious choices as to who it might be?" He sounded a little afraid again, but Jude chalked it up to the fact that they were nearing the door. 

                She gave a little chuckle. "Well, I would be the obvious choice, wouldn't I? Either myself or Professor Snape would be the easy answer. But I can guarantee you that it is neither of us." They rounded the corner just in time to see Professor Snape slamming the door shut and locking it. He was panting as if he'd just finished a marathon. Jude ran over to him, but Professor Quirrell preferred to remain behind. 

                "What the hell was Hagrid thinking? That thing almost tore my leg off." Jude looked down at the professor's leg and, indeed, Fluffy had tried his best. 

                "Did anyone manage to get in?" Jude questioned frantically. Snape gave her an incredulous glare. 

                "Well, Jude, I didn't see any body parts lying around, so I'd venture a guess that no one managed to get past that monstrosity," he snapped viciously at her. She shrugged it off. 

                "We should go and see if the others need our help. You should see Madam Pomfrey about your leg." She started to walk back down the corridor toward Professor Quirrell, who looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was aid the others in dispatching a fully-grown Mountain Troll.

                "I'll be fine," he said and followed the others. Jude noticed the suspicious look the professor gave to Quirrell as he passed the trembling little man. Did Snape suspect Qurriell? She wondered why he would and made a mental note to ask him later.

                As they descended to the second floor, they heard a scream from a long way off. So the troll was no longer in the dungeon, Jude guessed. They quickened their pace a little, still remaining cautious. After a few turns down the winding corridors, they met Professor McGonagall. She explained that the troll had left the dungeon and the teachers had split up to find it. As she finished her explanation, the ground shook as something large seemed to have hit the floor not far from where they all stood. They continued down the corridor after Professor McGonagall, who flung open the door to the girls' toilets. Jude's eyes widened in surprise at the scene that greeted her. The stalls and sinks were reduced to piles of wood and plaster on the floor where a large, smelly troll lay, unconscious. Harry and his redheaded friend were standing over it and Jude could see the bushy-haired girl struggling to get to her feet. She looked visibly shaken and horrified. 

                Professor Snape brushed by Jude to get a closer look at the troll. He bent over it and examined the lump on its small head. It was definitely out cold. Jude noticed Professor McGonagall silently fuming, staring hard at Harry and his friend. 

                "What on earth were you thinking of?" Professor McGonagall said with cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?" 

                Jude's eyes were narrowed, examining the students' expressions. Why had these kids thought that they could handle a troll on their own? And once again, she'd realized that Harry was in jeopardy and she had no clue about it. She had allowed him to be in danger twice. She kicked herself—so far she wasn't doing a great job of keeping Harry safe. But this kid seemed to find trouble easily—she'd have to work harder at keeping an eye on him.

                The boys were silent. But from the other side of the room a small voice answered the Professor.

                "Please, Professor McGonagall—they were looking for me."

                "Miss Granger!" McGonagall looked astounded that she could have been the cause of this mess. 

                "I went looking for the troll—because I—I thought I could deal with it on my own—you know, because I've read all about them." Jude raised her eyebrows in disbelief—this girl was horrible at lying. "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose," 

                "Lovely," Jude thought.

                "And Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."  

                Jude had to admit that it was very noble of this girl to take all of the blame for this fiasco. She only hoped that McGonagall would buy such a feeble lie and let them off the hook. But Jude wasn't sure the professor would go lightly on any of them—she was notoriously fair. 

                "Well—in that case…" McGonagall said, staring at the three students. "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?" 

                Jude saw the girl hang her head. The boys remained speechless. 

                "Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," the professor said. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor tower." The girl left as McGonagall turned her attention to the two boys. "Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go." Jude watched as the two hurried out of the chamber.         

***

                "That troll was a diversion." Jude began.

                "Yes, that's exactly as I suspected." It was reassuring that at least Dumbledore and Professor Snape agreed with her. "Severus, did you find anyone in the Third Floor Corridor?" 

                "No, Headmaster, there was no one." 

                "I think that someone here, in this school, let it in. Voldemort would have someone we trust working against us. That's the only way He'd ever manage to get the Stone without being discovered." Jude tried to explain her theory, which was feeble at best, being that she could produce no name to fit the role of the insider working against them.

                "Couldn't it have merely been a prank? Peeves could just as easily have let that troll in, Miss Elliot." McGonagall would, as usual, take the objective view and not let suspicion cloud her judgement. 

                "I guess that is just as likely, Professor. But it is too close of a coincidence to be overlooked." She didn't want to sound like the boy who cried wolf, but everything that had happened pointed in the direction she'd taken. She knew she was right, but couldn't fully explain why she was.

                "Alright," Dumbledore placated her. "I suggest that everyone keep an eye open. Something is afoot. Peeves may have been behind this and it may have been part of a more sinister plot. We need to be prepared if something else should confirm our suspicions." Jude got up to follow the others as they filed out of the Headmaster's office. 

                "Can I speak to you for a minute, Jude?" She looked at the person who'd grabbed her elbow. It was Professor Snape. She nodded, intending to seek him out later anyway. They ducked into an empty classroom and Jude shut the door.

                "You really should see Madam Pomfrey about that," she urged the professor as he limped to a chair and sat down.

                "Later." He frowned at Jude. "So you have no idea who could have possibly been behind letting that troll in?" His tone was harsh, almost accusing. Was he suggesting that it was her?

                "No, Professor." She furrowed her brows, trying not to look hurt at the insinuation. "Who do you suspect?" She knew he was on to someone by the tone of his voice.

                "Quirrell." He spat the name with loathing. "Why would someone with experience dealing with such beasts as trolls run to tell Dumbledore and the rest of us that it had gotten into the school? Why didn't he just take care of it himself? I know that he's more than up to the task."

                Jude was expecting this revelation but still had trouble pointing the finger at Quirrell. "You saw him. He's a coward." She was exasperated. Next to Quirrell being in league with Voldemort, she'd just as well believe that Peeves was responsible for letting the troll in. 

                "Maybe he has us all fooled." 

                That made sense to Jude, but she still had a hard time pointing the finger at someone when the evidence was flimsy at best. 

                "I'm not asking you to denounce him to Dumbledore, Jude," Snape reassured her. "I merely want you to keep an eye on him. Tell me if you notice anything suspicious." 

                "Okay," she agreed reluctantly. She couldn't help but think that, maybe in another classroom, some of the other teachers were discussing the likelihood that she and Snape were once again in league with Voldemort. She knew that she was a much more likely target of suspicion that jittery, stuttering Professor Quirrell. She would promise nothing, but she would be watching him from now on. She couldn't afford another close call—another, that maybe all that was necessary. 


	10. Reflection

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series belong to the fabulously talented J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. But I'm sure she doesn't mind me borrowing them, just for a little while. I promise to return them all in perfect condition, after I am done bending them to my sinister will (evil laugh behind steepled fingers). Seriously, though, no copyright infringements were intended and no money is being made from this tale. All original characters belong to me, unless I have filched them from my sister, in which case credit due her will be noted in this, or other such, disclaimers. Whew!

Author's Note: Any recognizable snatches of dialogue are from _The Sorcerer's Stone_ and are the property of Rowling as well.

Chapter Ten:  Reflection

'I have a wish, I want to learn 

_I wish to see, and I want to affirm _

_That what I see in reflection day to day _

_Isn't all I am'_

_Incubus, Divided_

                She buried her face in the soft, warm towel. She dreaded the moment she would drop the towel and be forced to look into the mirror. Letting it fall to the floor at her feet, her eyes rose slowly to take in the reflection. The Jude staring back at her was the same, yet astoundingly changed. When had she become so old? This girl staring back must be at least five years older than her roughly twenty-one years of age! The gray eyes that had never held any real luster, like two small lakes on an afternoon just before snow, were now ringed by dark circles and punctuated by lines at the corners. She looked horrible. How long had it been since she'd had a decent night's rest? In all honesty, she couldn't say that she'd ever slept through a single night in her life. Yet she'd never looked this tired and beaten before, the customary circles under her eyes never deepening to the dark hue of a livid bruise, until now. 

                Of course, she did have a lot to worry about at the moment. Someone was trying to kill the kid she was charged to look after and she'd spent the last four months canvassing the halls of the enormous castle, hoping to head off the danger before it found him. She'd expected whoever it was to go after the Stone before Harry, but it seemed now that because of their frustrated attempts at gaining access to the Third Floor Corridor, they would pass the time until the right opportunity came along by concentrating their efforts on killing the boy. She looked again at the mirror. Her shoulders were slumped, making her look shorter than her five feet and two inches. Her hands steadied herself against the small sink underneath the offending mirror. Her head bowed, letting her dull, sandy locks fall in limp strands around her face. Only in the last few weeks had she felt so worn and tattered, however. After Halloween, she'd thought that further attempts at stealing the Stone would become more secretive and would concentrate only on that single objective, unlike the troll that had almost reduced Harry and his friends to a pile of splinters and dust with the rest of the toilets they had battled in. Yes, she had to admit—the boy had blindly, but bravely wandered into that one. He had a knack for finding trouble, not unlike herself at that age, Jude mused. 

                But in November, only a few short weeks ago, at the first Quidditch match of the year, Harry had almost been bucked off of his broom and sent plummeting to his death. She had not been present at the time—she thought that the presence of the other teachers and students would ensure the boy's safety. She had been dead wrong. After the game, Professor Snape had told her of the strange events that had stalled the game. Someone had jinxed Harry's broomstick, Quirrell's doing, in Snape's opinion—an accusation Jude still felt to be too feeble to accept. Snape had, of course, used a counter curse to help Harry who was unharmed, but had sworn to Jude that Harry's little friend, Miss Granger, had set his robes on fire. 

                It made little sense to her that the culprit would give up their pursuit of the Stone, even just for one moment, and double their efforts at harming Harry. Unless the guilty party was present that evening when she'd attempted to convince Dumbledore that the troll released into the castle on Halloween was a diversion. Whoever was behind jinxing Harry's broom had heard her rant about an insider working for Voldemort. Now they were trying to shake her up a bit by striking at the one she was supposed to be protecting. It was true that she'd already taken too many chances with the boy's safety, and maybe the mystery thief thought that one more close call was all it would take for Dumbledore to send her packing. 

                Walking over to her bed, she sat down and pulled on her worn trainers. Professor McGonagall was annoyed to no end by Jude's nonconformity to professional dress code. Jude reached for a woolen sweater and pulled it over her head. The castle was freezing in December, and even the fires blazing in every room were little match for the unforgiving Scottish winters Hogwarts knew. She heaved a heavy sigh and pulled open the door leading from her room into the corridor. Her thoughts were weighing her down with more guilt than even she thought she could handle. There was only one cure for this, Jude knew. She headed for Dumbledore's office to bury herself in work. 

***

                The remaining days before the Christmas holiday had expired quickly. Jude was not surprised to find Harry still occupying his room in the castle when most of the other students had gone home to their families. She'd heard stories about the Muggle family that had raised him and did not blame him for wanting to stick around. He was not alone, however. She'd also noticed that the Weasleys were sticking around for the holidays, as well. 

                Jude breathed in the scent of the fresh fir trees that Hagrid had placed in the Great Hall a few days ago. She loved that smell—it reminded her of the Forbidden Forest and of snow and cold. She turned her back to the beautifully decorated, warm and cozy Hall, where the remaining students were chattering loudly as they enjoyed lunch before heading back out into the snow to man their forts from the onslaught of snowballs from the enemy lines. It was Christmas Eve.

                Pulling open the door to her Headmaster's office, a warm rush of air greeted her in the cold, drafty hall. It smelled of cinnamon and sage and burning wood. A fire danced merrily in the grate, by which Dumbledore sat in a great armchair with Fawkes perched on the back.

                "Ah, come in, my dear." Dumbledore beckoned her to take the chair opposite him. 

                "You wanted to see me, Professor?" Jude looked curiously at her former Headmaster and mentor. The last thing she wanted to hear right now was more bad news. 

                At the look on her face, Dumbledore merely chuckled. "Do not worry, my dear. The sky is not falling, yet." She smiled sheepishly, wishing that he could not read her so well as he did. "I've just received an owl which was not addressed to me, that is all." He handed her an envelope.

                She took it without looking at it. "I will see to it that it gets to the rightful owner." She had no idea why he'd called her up here just to redirect some misguided mail for him, it wasn't exactly, after all, urgent and she'd had to leave Professor Sinistra alone to watch the students in the Great Hall. 

                "I'm sure you will, my dear." His eyes twinkled and he smiled mischievously. 

                She furrowed her brow at his exuberance over a little letter and decided to take a look. She turned the letter over in her hands. It was addressed to her in a familiar scrawl. As recognition dawned, she thought her heart would stop and she had trouble catching her breath. 

                Dumbledore appeared delighted with himself. "From a Mr. Mallory. A friend of yours, I assume?" At the suspicious glance she betrayed, Dumbledore confessed. "Yes, I read the letter, my dear. He is quite an amiable fellow, if you don't mind my saying so." She turned scarlet. "Forgive me, but I had to be sure this letter was safe. I must say, you don't get much mail, my dear. It threw me into a suspicious state and I had to know if it was really from a friend or someone who intended harm." She looked up at the professor's warm smile, instantly forgiving him, as a million questions raced through her mind. How had he found her? Were he and Adda all right? Was he still angry with her? "I suppose you want to read your letter in private, but before you go, could you see to it that this gets delivered? It is a Christmas present for Mr. Potter." She was instantly recalled from her thoughts as he handed her a squishy package in brown paper. "It was something that belonged to his father and I am returning it to him now. Will you see that he gets it?" 

                She nodded in compliance and took the package. Rising from her chair, she took leave of her Headmaster and left the warm and comforting office. She hurried through the dark, cold halls to the entrance of the kitchens. Before she could read the letter from Rhys, she had to see to it that this package would be delivered to Harry before tomorrow. She tickled the pear in a painting of a still-life fruit bowl. The pear giggled and instantly turned into a handle. 

                Stepping inside the kitchen, she was greeted by a thousand delicious smells. A passing house elf smiled warmly up at her and shouted to those around him. "It's Miss Jude, come back to see us all." She shook the hand of the tiny elf and others who'd gathered around her. She'd found more friends among the elves during her years here than among the students. 

                "Blinky, could you tell me where Tibbs is?" Jude inquired of the elf who'd first greeted her. 

                "Tibbs is there, Miss." He pointed to a short, spindly elf with a long nose and long droopy ears. 

                "Thanks, Blinky." She crossed the room to the table where Tibbs was rolling out a batch of cookies. 

                "Merry Christmas, Tibbs." Jude beamed as the small elf flung its arms around her knees, scattering flour all over her black cloak. Tibbs had been the closest friend she'd had at school that wasn't a teacher. He was an elf that Jude could trust to do anything for her. "I have a favor to ask of you." 

                The elf puffed with pride and importance. "Anything for Miss Jude, I will do." 

                "Take this to the Gryffindor Tower, to the First Year boys' dormitory. It is a Christmas present for Harry Potter. Best do it after he's asleep." She'd barely finished her instructions when Tibbs excitedly acceded to every detail. She kissed the little elf on his over large head. "Thanks, Tibbs. I owe you one." 

***

                She pulled her cloak around her shoulders. It had begun to snow harder as she walked down the front steps of the castle. She could hardly wait to tear open the letter, eager for just one word from Rhys. The path leading from the steps to the open yard, however, was a no man's land between two opposing forces in a raging snowball war. She would have to pass through the firefight to gain passage to the expanse beyond, where she could finally read her letter without disturbances. She took a deep breath and walked forward. It was Weasley against Weasley with Harry's black hair bobbing in and out of view next to his friend, Ron, as they valiantly retuned fire on Fred and George. Harry and Ron, noting a member of the staff passing through their lines, had called for a cease-fire. Fred and George, Jude noted, had no such intentions and she watched from the corner of her eye as they fashioned several enormous snowballs to lob in her direction. As she passed in front of the pair, they threw everything they had in her direction. Smiling, she raised one hand, palm toward the snowy projectiles and continued to walk. The snowballs halted, as if they'd hit an invisible wall, and smashed on the ground. She shook her head and laughed as Fred and George looked astounded. She loved doing that to the other kids when she was in school—only now she was assured she wouldn't catch hell from teachers for it afterward. 

                She ripped open the letter as she waded through the deepening snow. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the words: 

                _Dearest Jude,_

_                I miss you terribly—I will not pretend that I don't. It is not the same without you here, Love. Adda and Darcy miss you and want to be assured that you are all right. I want to know, as well. I have no clue where you've gone, and I will not try to find out—I sent this by owl and you know they can find anyone, proper address or none. I couldn't let the holidays pass without letting you know that I still think about you constantly—and even though it kills me, I cannot bear to let my memories of you go. They are all that I have left. I forgive you, Jude. I forgive you for causing me more pain than I have felt in a long time. You would never hurt me like that if you hadn't had a good reason. I assume you left because there were things that you needed to finish—demons from your past that you have to face. I guess I'm just writing to tell you that when you are finished with your past, I still want to be your future. I still love you. _

_                Merry Christmas, Love._

_                Rhys_

                Jude was not aware that she'd been standing in the same spot since she'd read the first line of the letter. She'd stood there reading and re-reading the letter for a long time, and only the slowly sinking sun and the numbness of her limbs would attest to how long. He forgave her and still loved her. It was a hope that she'd ruthlessly denied herself ever since she'd left him on that bridge over the Silver River. But now, from his own hand! She would allow herself to believe that when this was all over, she could go back to everything—her Paradise, her Rhys. When this is all over. Who knows when that will be? All Jude was aware of was the letter in her hand and the snow falling on her eyelashes as she blindly made her way back to the castle. The war zone had long been deserted. She stepped into the entrance hall of the warmly glowing castle filled with the noise from the Great Hall, where the students were assembled for dinner. She was instantly brought back to reality. A little boy sat in that Hall, oblivious to the danger he was in. Her duty was to him first. She could not afford this distraction right now. She tucked the letter into her pocket. She could hope on another day.

***

                "It seems our little celebrity has found new ways of sneaking around the castle at night," Professor Snape said casually to Jude as she filed through numerous documents for Dumbledore. She looked up at the professor who lazily made corrections on various papers his students had handed in. 

                She had noticed something funny going on lately—since Christmas, to be precise. Books in the restricted section screaming in the middle of the night when nobody seems to be around. Yet Filch had found a lantern at the scene of the crime. Jude had made numerous rounds at night, noticing doors opening and closing on their own and other oddities. She'd never once linked any of these strange happenings to Harry, however, and was eager to hear the professor's explanation for his suspicions. "What makes you think that, Professor?" 

                "His father." 

                Jude furrowed her brow. "What does Harry sneaking around have to do with his father?" Jude wasn't following. 

                "James and his friends used to roam the castle at night, looking for any sort of trouble they could find and creating it when they could find none," he explained with a detectable tone of malice in his voice. "He owned an Invisibility Cloak." 

                Jude raised her eyebrows. "An Invisibility Cloak?" Jude looked down at the stacks of papers in her lap thoughtfully. The squishy package Dumbledore had given her to deliver to Harry on Christmas. It had belonged to his father. "But why would Dumbledore give him something to help him sneak around the school at night when it's not safe?" Jude shook her head—it didn't make sense. 

                "Perhaps he feels the boy deserves the opportunity to find out what is going on for himself, which he will undoubtedly do, if given enough time." It did sound like something Dumbledore would do. She sighed—did Dumbledore feel he had to make her job more difficult? 

                "You don't like Harry much, do you?" Jude smirked. She'd noticed the icy tone in his voice any time he discussed the boy.

                "No," he replied flatly, hoping to end the conversation. It didn't work.

                "Why not?" She wouldn't give up when she wanted to know something. This Snape knew.

                "Because he is exactly like his father," he said shortly, putting his quill aside and facing Jude. "He thought he could get away with anything—he and his insufferable friends. And they did, most of the time." 

                "You went to school with them?" She was more curious by the moment. This was the first time she'd ever asked anyone for information about the man she'd killed. 

                "Yes." 

                She could tell that the conversation was closed. She would extract no more from him on this subject today. But she promised herself to try again. 

                "So you think Harry has the Invisibility Cloak, then?" She resumed the casual perusal of her papers. 

                "I know he has it. I became suspicious and asked Dumbledore. He told me he'd given it to him." He had also returned to calmly correcting his stack of paper.

                He was startled as Jude stood to her feet. "He what?" She yelled, looking in disbelief at her professor. The papers that had rested in her lap now lay all over the floor. It was now confirmed that Dumbledore had given Harry the means to sneak around at night, unseen and therefore unprotected by Jude. This was a nightmare.

                "Do you honestly think that keeping it from him would make him wander the halls less?" Snape looked at her as if she'd finally gone mad, but had expected it. "He's a troublemaker, Jude. What do you expect?" As an afterthought to her angry expression, he added, "Dumbledore would never allow the boy to be in danger. I'm sure he had his reasons."

                Jude bent to collect the scattered papers, silently fuming. If the boy wanted to know what was going on why did the Headmaster have to give him the ultimate key to rule breaking? Why didn't he just tell him? Far be it for Jude to question Dumbledore. But that's exactly what she was going to do. She gathered the stacks of disorderly papers and swiftly left the staff room. Professor Snape's eyes followed her thoughtfully. He was glad he hadn't told her what he'd found out about Quirrell just then. 

***

                "Jude. Good of you to come." Dumbledore opened the door, admitting Jude into his office. He ushered her into a chair in front of his massive desk as he sat down behind it. "Now, what was it you wished to see me about?" He smiled, giving her his full attention. 

                She returned his smile, hoping she didn't look too suspicious. He probably already knew why she'd come. She had the eerie feeling that the Headmaster could read minds.

                "It's about Harry," she said.

                "Ah, Harry." He looked down at his desk. "Harry, of course." He raised his eyes again to meet Jude's again. "And his Invisibility Cloak". 

                "Scary," Jude thought.

                "I knew you'd eventually come to me wanting to know why I gave the boy such a seemingly dangerous item." She nodded seriously. "The boy has already begun to suspect what is happening under this roof. Hagrid has informed me that he and his friends have asked him numerous questions…questions concerning Nicholas Flamel." Jude did not move as Dumbledore laced his fingers together and raised his hands to his chin. He continued. "The boy is determined to find out about his past, about his pursuers and about the Stone. I cannot stop him from searching for the answers he seeks, but I can help to ensure his safety." So Dumbledore had given him the cloak to help him stay safe as he wandered the castle looking for clues to solve this puzzle. "Better he wander the halls invisible to his enemies than in plain sight of them." He smiled. 

                "But what happens if he finds out about the Stone and goes in search of it. He may think it is his responsibility to stop Voldemort. He is in Gryffindor, after all, Professor. What if he gets himself in over his head with this?" The concern was unmistakable in her voice.

                "My dear, 'nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear'. Marcus Aurelius was a wise man with much faith in human capability. Harry will not seek the Stone. But, my dear, should he try, I am sure he will be able to handle the danger," he reassured her, noting her skeptical look and continued, "With you to help him." 

                Dumbledore's faith in her seemed misplaced, but she appreciated the sentiment, hoping she was wrong. "Did you know, my dear, that Harry has discovered the Mirror of Erised? In his first year, much like another student, I remember." The surprise must have shown on her face, because Dumbledore chuckled as he looked on her. "And like that student, Harry has seen his family—a family that he will never know."

The dark corridors stretched in front of her. Another nightmare had woken her from an already fitful sleep. Knowing that she would never regain slumber tonight, she decided to continue her exploration of the winding halls of the fascinating castle. This long and narrow corridor was not as familiar to her as the others she'd passed—indeed, she couldn't be sure if she'd ever been down this one before. A pair of lamp-like eyes shown at the end of the black tunnel—it was Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat. She quickly ducked into an open door, hoping that the cat had not noticed her. She could afford to lose no more points from her House this week, or Professor Astor would see to it that she was expelled. She was sure she'd broken some sort of record for the greatest amount of points lost in the shortest period of time. She let the door slide open a crack and, to her immense relief, Mrs. Norris had gone. She quickly scanned the room she'd entered as she pulled the door open wider to leave.

_ Before she turned to go, a silvery glint caught her eye. She narrowed her eyes to try to see where the light was coming from. She released her grasp on the doorknob and walked over to the source of the light. Cautiously she surveyed the room—it looked like an old, forgotten study. There were desks and chairs and books all covered in a thick layer of dust. In front of her stood a large mirror with a beautifully gilded frame resting near a wall on four large, clawed feet. This was the only thing in the room on which the dust had not settled. It must have just been moved here from some other room, Jude mused. Its surface was still polished and luminous—it was the reflected light on this surface that had caught her eye. Curious words wound their way around the frame. She bent her head to read them as they climbed the side of the frame, rounded the top of the mirror, and then cascaded down the other side. "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," she read with a furrowed brow. Was it Latin? She didn't understand Latin beyond the few snatches she heard at mass, even if that's what this language was. She let her finger slide over the strange letters as her eyes fell to the glass reflective surface. She sprung back from the mirror and clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. There were other people in the mirror besides her. She tentatively glanced once more around the room then allowed her eyes to wander back to the mirror. She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, suspiciously scrutinizing the images in reflected in the mirror. One was a tall man—maybe forty years or older, she guessed. He had thick sandy hair that was graying at the temples and square, intelligent-looking glasses over deep, gray eyes. She pressed her lips together thoughtfully—this man who looked like her was smiling down at her. Did she know this man? She didn't recognize him. Resting her hand on the cool, polished glass of the mirror, she tore her eyes away from the first figure standing at her side, to take in the second form. It was a younger man, maybe twenty years old, she ventured. He looked exactly like the first man, only more youthful. The young man wore a sad, weary sort of smile. He looked tired, yet happy to see her there. Her eyes were drawn to his. They alone told of his life that must have been harder than most his age. They were also a deep gray, but held something that the other man's eyes did not. There was sorrow and weariness beyond his years buried there. Jude glanced at her own reflection—their eyes were the exact same. She looked back at the younger man and gasped, he was now holding something out to her—a small, gold bracelet. She had never seen these people before, but she had seen that little bit of jewelry before. She lifted her right hand to the mirror, her sleeves falling down to her elbows as she did. A gold bracelet was revealed wrapped around her wrist. It was small and barely fit around her tiny wrist, but it was the very same one that the man was holding out to her in the mirror. _

_She choked. "Are you my brother, then?" She narrowed her eyes. Her chin was trembling. The man's reflection nodded and smiled a handsome smile. Jude smiled back, letting her hand fall from the mirror. She took a few steps back to see the reflections better. As she stepped away from the mirror, her heart fell—the reflections faded. She was brought forcefully back to reality. These people—her brother, and the man she assumed was her father—were not real. She had no family—the mirror must have been a magical mirror—its cruel and cold surface showing her what she most desperately desired to see only to show her that that is exactly what she'll never have. She breathed in heavy, huffing breaths, gritting her teeth and willing herself not to cry. She was more enraged than she'd ever been. Looking around the room, she spotted a paperweight on the dusty desk. It was heavy and dusty.  She hefted the piece above her head, taking aim at the mirror. Just before she was about to send the object crashing through the glass, she felt a hand grab her wrist. _

_"No!" _

_She looked up and was startled to see Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster, restraining her. Great, she was really in for it now._

_"You must not break this mirror, child. Its magic is protected by a strong curse. The person responsible for breaking the Mirror of Erised is fated to die. Whatever you saw in that mirror, it is not worth your life, my dear." He took the paperweight from her hand. She let her arm drop limply to her side. After a pause in which Jude said nothing, just remained staring angrily at the mirror, her Headmaster broke the silence. "You saw your family?" He held her by the arms and gently turned her to face him. She nodded blankly. "Yes, my dear, the deepest desires of our heart maybe the one thing that could hurt us the most—when you can never possess what you see in that mirror. It has driven some insane, some to death. This mirror gives us neither knowledge nor truth, only pain at knowing that we may never attain what we truly desire. Tomorrow, Jude, this mirror will be moved to a new home. I cannot risk you finding it again. It does not do to live in the past, my child, and fail to see what is right in front of you." At the Headmaster's words, Jude roughly pulled her arms from his grasp and with an angry and bitter scowl, she ripped the tiny gold bracelet from her wrist and threw it on the floor at the foot of the mirror. She ran from the room before the professor had time to stop her. He bent down and retrieved the small trinket the child had discarded on the floor and pocketed it. She would want this later, he knew._

Jude lowered her head. If Dumbledore intended to make her feel guilty, he was doing a bang up job of it. When she looked up again, she noticed a concerned and sympathetic look on her Headmaster's face. "Remember, my dear. It does not do to live in the past and fail to see what is right in front of you." He laid a small, gold bracelet on the desk in front of her and walked, head bowed, out of the office.


	11. Into the Woods

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. All other characters belong to me, as does the plot (other than that of Rowling's wonderful books) of this little tale. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended by its creation. 

Chapter Eleven: Into the Woods 

_'The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep _

_And miles to go before I sleep.'_

_Robert Frost, Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening_

                It was growing dark and frigid—it was still winter, after all. She paced in the clearing, trying to stay warm. A hand grabbing her arm and stilled her, warning of the approach of someone. She turned to stare into the dark forest, following the path of the professor's equally tense glare. 

                "I told you he'd come." His voice was barely a whisper. Jude watched as the jittery and nervous form of Professor Quirrell made his way into the clearing through a thick growth of trees. 

                "That doesn't prove a thing, Professor," Jude replied a little incredulously. "What did you tell him anyway?" She gave Professor Snape a shrewd, sideways glance. 

                "I told him to meet us here, in the forest, because we had an offer to make him." His lips twisted into a cruel smirk. She wanted proof and she would get just that, from Quirrell's mouth, no less. 

                Their whispered conference ended as the third party approached. His mere presence here was enough to cast suspicion on the man. If Quirrell was not after the Stone, then why would he chance to meet Professor Snape and herself under such shady pretenses? Why would he not run straight to Dumbledore and inform him that he'd discovered the culprits? He may be guilty, as his presence here seemed to verify, or he may be just as suspicious of them as they were of him. Jude was determined not to lose a word of what passed between the two and moved closer to where they stood.

                "Who is it, Quirrell?" Snape noted Quirrell begin nervously wringing his hands together.

                "Who is what, Severus?" His eyes darted around the forest. Jude continued to stare unblinkingly at him. 

                "Who are you working with? We know you can't possibly pull something this big off by yourself." Snape spat the words maliciously, hoping he would take the bait. 

                "I honestly don't know what you're talking about." 

                "You let the troll in on Halloween, didn't you?" It was Jude who spoke, moving from her place in the shadows into moonlight, breaking a long silence. She noted a twitch at the side of his mouth but he remained silent. "It was pretty impressive. An expert on trolls. You find them fascinating, a little bit of an obsession." He betrayed a slight hint of astonishment, so fleeting that only the deftest of observers would have picked it up. Jude had noticed it. "Yes, I've done a little research of my own. Very interesting." She folded her arms and allowed herself a small, victorious smile. She would give him time to explain, to redeem himself, if possible. But the more she observed the nervous professor's behavior, the more she was convinced of his guilt. "So," she said after an empty silence, "I'm curious as to why you simply didn't handle the troll on your own?" She leveled a cold stare in his direction. A hint of resentment and hatred was aptly masked by his familiar stutters and nervous twitch as he explained how suddenly it had advanced on him and he was caught unprepared for the fight. Jude listened with curiosity to the tale and knew something was off, not quite right. Something was tipping her off to the fact that this story was a load of bullshit. She narrowed her eyes, trying to grasp what that something was, what was different in the professor's attitude that had alerted her. Her eyes widened a little as she realized that, about midway through his explanation, Quirrell had become so occupied with creating a believable lie—a story that seemed very likely to Jude—that he'd lost his accustomed stutter. Of course, Jude thought, it could have been a coincidence, just a chance happening, but she highly doubted it. This guy had everyone fooled—he was not who he pretended to be. She fell in to silent thought.

                Professor Quirrell turned nervously from Jude to Professor Snape. "Don't know why you wanted to meet here of all places, Severus…" He resumed his stutter, feigning innocence as to why they asked him to come. He'd obviously not made up his mind as to which side Jude and Snape were loyal to.

                "Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape in an icy voice. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all." Quirrell looked as if he were doing his best to size them both up. He continued. "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" Snape smiled cruelly. He'd previously informed Jude that he'd found Quirrell several times lurking about the Third Floor Corridor. Hagrid's three-headed dog was the only obstacle that he, or the other teachers, did not know about. It had been kept exclusively between Hagrid and Dumbledore. 

                "But Severus, I—"

                "You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," Snape said, taking a step toward him. 

                Jude looked around the clearing. She had the feeling that someone was watching them. She could sense eyes following their every movement. 

                "I don't know what you—"

                "You know perfectly well what I mean." 

                An owl hooted loudly, cutting through the icy silence of the forest. Her eyes continued to scan the forest, paying only cursory attention to the exchange between Quirrell and Snape. She knew something was out there—but what? Was Voldemort lying in wait in the forest for Quirrell to finish his job and bring Him the Stone? She doubted it, but it was still possible. She brought her attention back to the scene in front of her just in time to hear Snape cast the last bullying insult. 

                "Very well. We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decide where your loyalties lie." He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. Casting one last scrutinizing glance on Quirrell, she followed.

                "And?" Professor Snape asked as Jude came up on his right side. 

                "Guilty." Jude had been unwilling to admit such a fact, but now that she'd confronted Quirrell, she knew he was their man. Jude had an uncanny ability to pick up on a lie, no matter how slight it was or how skilled the author. It was a gift she'd perfected as a spy for Voldemort. She had been one of His best and was only used by the Dark Lord to root out those disloyal in His inner circle. Needless to say, she'd formed many enemies within and without the ranks of the Death Eaters. She shook her head and sighed. "But we can't tell Dumbledore yet—we have no actual proof that he is guilty. And the problem is that I don't think he'll give us the ammunition."

                "So, we'll just keep an eye on him until he makes his move." 

                Jude nodded her head in agreement. She silently hoped that they were wrong, or that their little "talk" with Quirrell tonight would frighten him into giving up his dastardly plot. Voldemort was just using him, as He did everyone. She wondered what He'd promised him in return for the Stone. Whatever it was, the Dark Lord was never a man of his word. She only hoped that Quirrell would come to realize that before he got in too deep. And as far as she knew, Voldemort himself was not around yet, so Quirrell couldn't be that close to obtaining his prize.

***

                "A dragon?" Jude stared unbelievingly at the Deputy Headmistress as if she'd said something totally off the wall. 

                "Yes. Apparently Mr. Potter and Miss Granger made up some utterly ridiculous story involving a dragon and the Astronomy Tower in order to get Mr. Malfoy out of bed and into trouble." Her lips were pressed together in an impossibly thin line that broke only for her to continue her explanation. "Anyway, Mr. Longbottom heard that Malfoy was going to catch his friends and went off to warn them. Four students out of bed in one night! I haven't had to deal with such blatant unconcern for rules in twenty years!" She returned to her seat, still fuming over three of her own House members' disregard for school rules.

                Jude furrowed her brow in thought. Hagrid had always wanted a dragon, he'd told her so when she was younger. Maybe now he'd finally gotten one and Harry and his friend were going to see it. Either way, it was an odd event and Jude knew it was more significant than Professor McGonagall was prepared to believe. But just what was funny about all of this, Jude couldn't put her finger on at the moment. However, she had little time to ponder this, as McGonagall's voice recalled her from her thoughts. 

                "I have issued all four students their detention notices today. It will take place tonight in the Forbidden Forest." McGonagall's eyes were fixed on a stack of papers she was shuffling about on her desk.

                "The Forbidden Forest? Isn't it, well, forbidden to students, Professor?" Jude wondered why the Deputy Headmistress would send four eleven-year old children out into a forest that had earned an infamous reputation. 

                "It was Dumbledore's suggestion. Besides, they will be going with Hagrid. Something has been harming the unicorns in the forest and they will be helping Hagrid locate one that was wounded." McGonagall did not lift her eyes from her desk. "And, of course, you will be present to keep an eye on Mr. Potter." At this, she finally looked up and met Jude's curious stare. 

                "Yes, of course." She stammered, still lost in thought. It was all very odd, but she would not argue with Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore. 

***

                Jude pulled her cloak around her shoulders. She was only a few minutes late, but she hurried forward into the dark, cold night with as much speed as she could muster. She knew she must look ridiculously suspicious wrapped in a black coat and running into the forest at a little past midnight, but she didn't care much for that right now. Slowing her pace when she saw a couple of lanterns bobbing through the trees several paces in front of her, she heard the voices of the children and the booming voice of Hagrid. She followed for a while, keeping a safe distance, when movement in the underbrush off to her left caught her attention. She tried to slow her breath, which was coming out in quick, frosty-white puffs, and strained to listen for any noise coming from that direction. She heard the crunch of footsteps and—voices? Someone was talking to another person. She stealthy moved from the path into the underbrush. The voices and footsteps had continued on and Jude, looking back at the lanterns that indicated Hagrid, Harry and the others moving off down the path, decided to follow. 

                After a few minutes of this pursuit, the crunch of the footsteps ceased. Jude quietly moved forward to catch a glimpse of whomever she was following.  There was a solitary form on the path clad in a long, hooded, black cloak. It was bent over, examining something—and muttering. Was this person talking to himself? She couldn't distinguish any other figures around.  The cloaked figure began to move forward again, this time at an even greater speed. Jude followed, glancing at the space where it had examined something. She saw a few leaves of a low shrub covered with a thick, silver liquid that glistened in the faint moonlight. Unicorn blood.

                She attempted to keep the hooded figure in her sights, but trying to follow the person and remaining quiet at the same time seemed like a hopeless task. The figure disappeared into a growth of trees and thickets. She stood, rooted to the spot, straining against the wind for a sign of movement anywhere. 

                "Damn it." She stomped the frozen ground hard with her foot. She'd let whatever that thing was get away. Should she try to find it again, or return to Hagrid and the children and make sure they were okay? Just as she was debating this dilemma, she was startled from her thoughts. 

                "Jude Elliot." She jumped and turned to the person who'd spoken her name. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but she quickly regained her composure. It wasn't a person at all, but a centaur with a gleaming chestnut body and reddish hair. "I didn't expect to see you around here again. What are you running from this time?" The centaur crossed his arms across his chest and stared at her.

                Jude heaved a sigh and slumped wearily against a tree. "Hello, Ronan, good to see you again, as well." She bit off the words a bit too sarcastically, she regretted. But to her astonishment, Ronan didn't turn and leave. Maybe he would have some information for her. "Listen, you haven't noticed anything," how would she put this without sounding psycho or paranoid? "Unusual?" 

                The centaur crossed the little clearing and stood under a gap in the tree branches, where a small patch of the night sky was exposed. He looked up and stood silently for a few moments. "Mars is bright tonight. Unusually bright." Jude looked up. The planet that resembled a slightly larger star was, indeed, brighter. 

                She nodded her agreement. What did that mean? she wondered. It had been a while since she'd paid attention to the night sky and had forgotten most of what she'd leaned in Astronomy, anyway. If she just stood there long enough, maybe the centaur would end the cryptic game and tell her what she wanted to know. She was familiar with most of the centaurs in the forest—she'd explored the woods just as thoroughly as the castle corridors. She understood that the centaurs were stargazers and interested in nothing closer to the earth than the moon, but they were a great help in matters such as these if only one had the patience to wait for the answers they were looking for. But Jude didn't know how much time she could afford to lose.

                "In dark times, the innocent are always the first to suffer." Ronan's voice was low as he continued to gaze at the heavens. "You are looking for the one responsible for harming the unicorns." He allowed his eyes to fall from the stars and rest on Jude. "Your suspicions are correct, my friend. He is using the blood of unicorns to cling to life long enough to secure immortality forever." 

                 She nodded. "Voldemort is here, in the forest." It was more a statement than a question. 

                "Now, yes. He is in the forest now, but not always. He is living off of more than the blood of unicorns." Ronan closed his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully. "He has the aid of a trusted servant."

                Jude remained motionless and silent. So it was true, then—Quirrell was harboring Voldemort somewhere and supplying him with the necessary blood to keep him alive until he can get the Stone. "Ronan, how long has this been happen—," But she was cut off by a terrified scream from somewhere in the thick of the woods. Her head snapped around in the general direction of the noise, her face diffuse with fearful anxiety. "Harry," she whispered. 

                Ronan turned on his heals and bounded off at a quick gallop in the direction of the scream. Jude followed as fast as she could command her feet to carry her, however, she was soon left behind by the powerful centaur. 

After a few more moments of running through the thick foliage, Jude found herself in the shadows surrounding a clearing created by a fallen tree, whose gnarled branches lay heaped on the ground. Ronan, who had been joined by another centaur Jude recognized as Bane, was admonishing yet another centaur. This third centaur was younger and Jude did not recall his name. He was carrying a rider. 

It was Harry. 

"I'm sure Firenze thought he was acting for the best," she heard Ronan speak in his accustomed gloomy voice.

Bane kicked his back legs in angry impatience. "For the best!" he thundered. "What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like donkeys after stray humans in our forest!"

Jude stepped further back into the shadows as Firenze suddenly reared on his hind legs in anger. "Do you not see that unicorn?" Jude glanced at the base of the twisted, fallen tree and saw moonlight glinting off of the white body of a unicorn surrounded by puddles of the thick, silver blood that resembled mercury. It was dead. 

"Do you not understand why it was killed?" Firenze continued to bellow at Bane. "Or have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, yes, with humans alongside me if I must."

Jude watched as the centaur whisked around and carried Harry out of the clearing. He would take the boy back to Hagrid, Jude was certain of that. She, however, turned to make her way through the thickets back to the castle without being seen or heard by any one else.

Upon reaching the castle, Jude climbed a marble staircase and headed toward her room to remove her cloak before making her rounds on the third floor. She unclasped the thick material from around her throat and let it fall to the floor at her feet. She was about to collapse wearily onto her welcoming bed, when her eye was caught by shimmering material. Taking a few steps, she saw a note resting on a length of soft, glistening and very odd-colored fabric. She picked up the parchment and saw the familiar, looping hand of the Headmaster. 

"Jude," she read, "Please return this to Mr. Potter. He has misplaced it, I'm afraid, and I'm sure he will appreciate its return." She sighed and picked up the article. It had another note attached for Harry. "What the hell," she decided and draped the fabric over her arm, heading out the door. "I guess I'll have to do it myself, it's nearly three and I'm sure Tibbs has already gone to bed." 

She climbed the stairs to the Gryffindor Tower and whispered the password to the fat lady in a pink dress guarding the portrait that doubled as the door to the common room. Passing through the portrait hole, she noticed Harry's redheaded friend asleep in a chair. She made her way quietly past the chair and up the stairs to the dorm Harry shared with the other Gryffindor boys his age. Two other boys were asleep in the room, snoring loudly as Jude placed Harry's invisibility cloak on his bed along with the note from Professor Dumbledore.

Closing the door as quietly as she could manage, she crept down the stairs, hoping to make her escape before Harry and his friends returned from the forest. She heard voices coming from the common room below and realized that she hadn't been lucky enough to make an easy break. She quickly ducked into the shadow of a tapestry as a round-faced and slightly chubby boy made his way wearily up to his room. 

Mr. Longbottom, Jude noted absently as the boy passed. After he was out of sight, she continued down the stairs. She concealed herself in the darkness behind the stairs' railings, where she could see but not be seen by the three students crowded around the fireplace, deep in discussion. 

"Snape and Elliot want the Stone for Voldemort…and Voldemort is waiting in the forest." Jude smiled sadly at the words she'd just heard, spoken by Harry. So, he suspected her and Professor Snape. She had to admit, that they would be the likely suspects—the way she wandered the halls constantly at night and the suspicious midnight conferences she'd had with Professor Snape seemed to cast a shady sort of light on the pair. She listened more intently as Harry explained to his friends that he'd overheard their conversation with Professor Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest a couple of weeks ago. So she had been correct in believing that they were being watched. If Harry had seen that, then no wonder he suspected them. If she were in Harry's shoes, she had to admit, she'd suspect herself in a heartbeat. But that didn't stop the words from stinging a little. 

"Firenze saved me, but he shouldn't have done so…Bane was furious…he was talking about interfering with what the planets say is going to happen…They must show that Voldemort's coming back… Bane thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me…I suppose that's written in the stars as well." Harry took a deep breath. So, he'd seen Voldemort tonight. Jude closed her eyes. Yet another close call and Jude was not near enough to be of any help to Harry. If the centaur had not been there, Jude did not want to think of what could have happened. She mentally kicked herself. Why had Dumbledore insisted that she was the only one who could do this job? Dumbledore was seldom wrong, but Jude had a feeling he'd made a grave mistake.

"So all I've got to wait for now is them to steal the Stone," Harry went on, "then Voldemort will be able to come and finish me off…Well, I suppose Bane'll be happy." 

"Not if I can help it," Jude whispered, an unpleasant, nervous feeling had settled in her stomach. This kid was apparently aware of how much danger he was in, but did not realize that he had a few unlikely friends that would give anything to keep him safe. 

"Harry," his bushy-haired friend spoke up, "everyone says Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won't touch you. Anyway, who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says that's a very imprecise branch of magic." That definitely sounded like something McGonagall would say. 

This seemed to reassure Harry enough, and after a few more moments, the three students went off to bed. It had already turned lighter outside when Jude, her confidence shaken a little after what she'd witnessed and heard that night, emerged from the portrait hole and proceeded to the third floor. 

***

It was a warm and sunny afternoon—one of the last few days remaining in the term. Exams were scheduled to be completed by today, giving the students almost a week of freedom before grades were given and bags were packed for home. It had been quiet for weeks concerning the Stone, Jude noticed—eerily quiet. No new attempts were made to gain entrance to the Third Floor Corridor and Jude hoped that things would continue to be this calm until all of the students were away for the summer. 

A knock on the door brought Jude's attention back from the papers she was going over. "Come in," Jude called in the direction of the door to Dumbledore's office where she sat alone, engrossed in her work. She looked up to see Hagrid enter the office. "Hello, Hagrid," Jude said cheerfully and smiled. Hagrid, however, did not seem in the mood for pleasant conversation. 

"I've got ter talk to Dumbledore straight away, Jude—it's urgent." Jude looked up at the large man with an anxious and worried expression. 

"He's gone. He went to the Ministry for an important meeting with Fudge." Jude was becoming increasingly alarmed with Hagrid's behavior. "Why, Hagrid? What's wrong?"

Hagrid was wringing his hands and doing his best to avoid Jude's stares. "I mighter let summat important slip." He looked terribly guilty.

Jude entreated him to take a seat, which he only did reluctantly.

"I met this fellow down at the pub. Said he had a dragon egg he was keen on getting rid of. He said he'd play me a game of cards for it." So this was what the whole dragon fiasco was about—not some scam cooked up by Harry to get another student into trouble, as McGonagall saw it. "Well, I didn't get a good look at him—he was wearin' a hood. He seemed real interested in my job here as Gamekeeper and asked about the type of animals I was used to lookin' after—an' I told him about Fluffy." 

Jude stood up and started pacing, her mind was racing with possibilities. At length she stopped and turned toward Hagrid. "Did you tell him how to get past Fluffy?" His eyes fell to his shoes and Jude knew the answer immediately. 

"I did, but I didn't know I was doin' it at the time." Hagrid weakly defended himself. "Harry an' his friends figured it out before I did an' got me to tell them as well." Jude felt sorry for him. He looked as if he'd just given someone the weapon to kill his best friend. 

"It's okay, Hagrid." Jude tried to console him. "He would have found out another way if you hadn't told him—it was just a matter of time. And I'm sure Harry won't go looking for the Stone—he's smarter than that."

"Yer right, I guess." Hagrid didn't look too convinced by what Jude had said. 

She had to think quickly. Dumbledore, the only person Voldemort was ever afraid of, was nowhere near when he was most needed. It would be the perfect opportunity to strike. She had to find Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape to let them know what had happened. 

***

Jude ran quickly down a hallway lined with doors. She pushed open the third door on her right. The Transfiguration classroom was empty. She threaded her way through the vacant desks to a wooden door to the right of the large desk and blackboard at the front of the room. She knocked on the wood, but no answer came from within. She pushed this door open and peered around Professor McGonagall's empty office. 

The staff room was the next likely place to look for the Deputy Headmistress. As she approached the door, she noticed that it was ajar by a few inches. She reached for the handle, but paused. There were voices coming from within the room. She listened, realizing that she recognized only one of the voices—the voice of the nervous, stuttering Professor Quirrell. Only he was no longer stuttering, but explaining with confidence, his latest achievement. 

"He should be at the Ministry as we speak, Master." 

"Excellent." 

Jude heard a high and raspy voice reply to Quirrell from within the same room. Jude peered through the small opening in the door and saw only the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher—no one else. He was facing her direction, but had his head bowed. He was not wearing his accustomed turban. 

"Odd," Jude thought absently, "His head looks abnormally small without it." 

But in the next moment, the professor turned away from the door, explaining still another part of his plan. Jude gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth at the sight that greeted her. Another face, with slits for nostrils, like a snake and glowing, red eyes, occupied what should have been the back of the man's skull. 

"Voldemort!" she whispered, her voice caught in her chest. She had to alert Dumbledore right away, but she could not move her feet—they were rooted to the spot. She saw, as if in slow motion, the recognition in the cruel, red eyes. 

"Seize her!" He ordered as Quirrell spun to face the door, unaware that he was being watched.

She forced herself to move, but was not quick enough. She felt a hand grab her by the arm and haul her back through the door, slamming it shut behind her. 

Jude spun around and found herself staring down the point of a wand raised between her eyes. Before she could think to move or to speak, she heard Quirrell's cold, unmasked voice.

"Imperio!"

Author's Note: This chapter contained dialogue from the Sorcerer's Stone, and is the property of  J.K. Rowling.


	12. Eye of the Beholder

Disclaimer: All characters and situations, etc. associated with the Harry Potter series belong to J. K. Rowling, lucky lady! Also to the following companies, including but not limited to Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. I own only a few original characters (Jude, Rhys, Adda and Darcy), a wee bit o' plot, and a talking Sheriff Woody doll that speaks even when you don't pull his string.  Tom the Troll was snatched from J. R. R. Tolkien's _The Hobbit_. No copyright infringements were intended in this modest fic, Honest! And no money is being made from its creation—excuse me whilst I laugh hysterically—someone actually paying me for this? Ha! 

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've done one of these. Well, the plot has been moving kinda fast from this point—because I'm assuming every one has read _Sorcerer's Stone_, right? There are only one or two chapters left of Harry's first year—filled with shocking and horrific events. 

Chapter Twelve: Eye of the Beholder

'It's bitter 

_Tastes a lot like winter_

_And will it release me_

_So heavy_

_How much more to bring down the levy_

_And kill me'_

_Sister Hazel, Fortress_

                "Imperio!" His lips twisted into a cruel smile. 

                Hands falling limply at her side, a blank expression replaced the total shock that had only moments before marked the features of Jude's face.She stood rooted to the spot, eyes on Quirrell and lazily blinking, awaiting his command. 

                "We can use her." She heard the soft hiss from the back of Quirrell's head. "We must strike now," the voice spat impatiently. Quirrell quickly replaced the turban and resumed his familiar, twitchy expression.

                "We are going to the Third Floor Corridor. Do not speak to anyone along the way," Quirrell demanded in a self-important tone. Jude blinked once and slowly nodded her head in compliance, then turned to follow him out the door and into the hallway.

                The corridors were empty—it was well into the night by this time. Moonlight glittered down onto the cold, flagstone floors from the high windows. As they walked stealthily through the sleeping school to the third floor, they met with no one—not even Peeves. Jude's eyes darted around the dark passages, seeking someone, anyone, out. She wasn't confident that she could handle this on her own, but she would try if she had to.

                Just a few short moments ago in the staff room, Jude was sure that Quirrell would try to kill her. She was too shocked to be prepared for the encounter and was not quick enough to block the curse thrown at her—which, to her surprise, had not been the Killing Curse, or even a Stunning Charm, that she would have expected. No, Quirrell decided to use the Imperius Curse instead, no doubt under his Master's influence. But his Master, Voldemort, would surely know whom He was dealing with. Why would He have used the Imperius Curse on His former student, knowing that it would be ineffective—she'd taught herself how to ward off their effects almost immediately after joining His legion. The only explanation she could come up with is that Voldemort did not know it was her—after all, He'd only had a short glance at her through a slight opening in a door. 

                None of that mattered now, however. She had decided to pretend that the curse had been effective—it was not hard to mimic, as she'd seen many people act under its effects. The only way she saw out of this mess was to play along, gaining entrance to the Stone along with Quirrell, and keep the Stone safe from Voldemort—or die trying.

                She stood before the locked door on the third floor. Trying to maintain her blank expression while tension was building up inside her was maddening. She watched complacently as Quirrell stopped by a tapestry and retrieved something—a harp. Jude tried not to let the confusion show on her face as he bent over the object and muttered a few words. The harp began to play without the aid of human hands. 

                "When that monster hears the music, he will fall fast asleep," Quirrell explained to a seemingly disinterested Jude. "When it is out cold, we'll go through the trap door. Under that door is Professor Sprout's enchantment—a plant," he said dispassionately, as if he was disappointed in the caliber of magic involved in this defense. "It is Devil's Snare. When you land, you have to get away from it as quickly as possible. You will go through the trap door first and wait for me on the other side of the pathetic little shrub.  Got that?" Jude nodded, fighting the indignant remarks that strained to get out. He was speaking to her like a daft three year old. 

                He opened the door and vicious snarls and growls times three spilled out into the quiet hall. However, the noise died as the music calmed the beast, eventually lulling it to sleep. Jude crossed the room and pulled the large, brass ring that was the handle to the trap door. It was heavy and took every ounce of strength Jude could muster to lift it six inches. She strained against the wood, finally raising it enough to pass through. She let the door fall back on one of the immense paws of the sleeping dog. 

                Darkness surrounded her as she fell into a cavern, far beneath the school. Jude scrambled for the side of the room as soon as she felt herself land on a squashy mass of what felt like tentacles. Looking up, she saw that the trapdoor had now become a square of light no bigger than a postage stamp. When the light disappeared, Jude knew that Quirrell had finally jumped—proved undeniably true in a few short seconds when she heard the thud of someone landing in the midst of the squirmy plant, then scream like a frightened little girl as they ran for the side. She allowed herself a small smirk in the darkness.

                "Come!" She heard Quirrell's voice in the darkness at her side command her to follow him into a narrow corridor. There was a light at the end, she could see, and a strange noise that she couldn't quite identify. It sounded like hoards of insects beating their wings. As they walked through a door, she realized she was right—sort of. The noise was coming from hundreds of pairs of wings. However, they were not attached to insects, but dozens of shiny keys!

                She looked over at the door—locked, she assumed. This must be Professor Flitwick's enchantment, Jude thought as she looked up into the scores of flying keys. The one they were to capture, she supposed, would be different from the others. She walked over to the door and examined the lock. The key would have to be a large, silver one. She looked up again and saw the key she was looking for gliding lazily between several smaller, golden keys. She noticed some broomsticks in another corner—so that was how one was supposed to go about catching it. There must be a catch, however—Flitwick would never make it that easy. 

                Jude hadn't noticed that she was being watched the entire time by Quirrell. As she walked around admiring Professor Flitwick's handiwork, he'd been allowing her to figure out the enchantment for him. 

                "Find a way through that door," he commanded Jude. So, he didn't know how to get past this one. She simply turned and stared at him. 

"I don't fly," she replied in a dull, hollow voice. The expression on her face had not altered from the mask of disassociated blankness. "Now!" He lifted his wand and pointed it at her. He would find a way through with or without her, she understood. There may still be a chance that she could stop him from getting the Stone, but she would never find out if he killed her right here. She narrowed her eyes at the professor.

                "Accio silver key!" she demanded, holding her left hand up to where the key was floating aimlessly around the room. It zoomed into her hand with lightning speed. She closed her hand around it, feeling a crunch. She turned and walked to the door, slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it, hearing a satisfying click. The door swung open. She released the key back into the air, noting that she'd accidentally crushed one of its wings. Quirrell stood amazed. Well, if she had to find a way through, she might as well show off. 

                Quirrell brushed past her and into the room through the door she'd just unlocked. Jude followed him into the dark room. Suddenly, however, the darkness was chased away by a flood of light, revealing a large, life-size chessboard. She ran through the list of those who'd created defenses for the Stone, trying to guess each of the teacher's contributions. This one must be Professor McGonagall's, Jude reasoned. 

                Quirrell stepped onto the polished board and walked across to the row of opposing pawns. Each pawn fiercely drew their swords and barred the way for the intruder. The Deputy Headmistress had Transfigured the chessmen to be alive. Quirrell turned to face Jude. "Do you play chess?" 

                She said nothing. The truth was that she was an excellent chess player. Dumbledore had taught her when she'd first come to Hogwarts, and, although she was fair competition for the Headmaster, she'd never beaten him. 

                "Find a way across!" Quirrell raised his wand at Jude and barked the order. She fought the urge to roll her eyes and shake her head. His behavior was becoming tiresome and repetitive. She stepped onto the gleaming surface of the board. 

                She paused a moment and looked around. She didn't feel much like taking a chance against McGonagall's live chessmen. There had to be another way, there always was. A simple solution would present itself if she just thought about the problem hard enough. McGonagall turned the stone chessmen into live beings. Live! If they were alive, then they could be subject to similar charms and curses as living things. 

                She raised her left hand from her side. "Stupify!" she shouted at the legion of white pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, king and queen in front of her. They did not move. Had it worked? There was only one way to find out for sure. She took a step forward, then another. She was now standing in front of the pawns that were still brandishing their weapons. She ducked under the crossed blades of two pawns.

                Nothing.

                She glanced back at Quirrell before advancing to the next door. When he'd finally caught up to her, Quirrell pulled open the next door. A disgusting smell filled the air. Jude grimaced. "What's in there?" She choked out the words. 

                "My troll." He sounded like a boy showing off his new puppy to the neighborhood kids. Jude stepped through the large door behind Quirrell, who stood just beyond the opening, proudly beholding his magnificent troll. 

                The troll noticed the intruder and bellowed, advancing on them with great, thundering footsteps. He hefted a large, knotted club in one of his giant hands. As it swung at the two trespassers, Jude dove to the side, just avoiding being pulverized like a beetle in a mortar and pestle. As she lay crumpled against a wall, shielding her head with her hands as the troll slammed his club into anything in close proximity like a member of a rock band trashing a hotel room, she hear Quirrell speaking to the troll in a calm and placating tone.

                "Now, now, Tom. You don't want me to get nasty, now do you?" He sounded like an over-indulgent mother half-heartedly scolding a beloved child. The troll just missed Quirrell by a matter of inches. Still, he tried to sooth his troll with words. Jude was happy enough to let the troll finish off Professor Quirrell. 

                However, without warning and without her doing anything to attract the troll's attention, it turned on her. She backed against the wall, unsure of how one goes about defeating a troll—she'd never even seen one until Halloween. The only knowledge she had on the creatures was what she'd gleaned from books she'd read. "Trolls are stupid," was the only, unhelpful, bit of information that came to mind. She ducked, the club just missing her then she leaped sideways as the troll brought the club crashing down on the spot where she'd stood only moments before. 

She got to her feet just in time to see Quirrell dart through the next door. "Don't hurt my troll too much, if you don't mind," she heard him call to her as he disappeared. Panting, she backed away from the troll that was advancing once again on her, dragging its mangled club behind him. She took another step back and felt the cool stone of the wall press against her back. 

"Shit!" She was trapped. The troll lifted its club over its head, preparing to bring down the last crushing blow. Pushing off of the wall, she dove forward at the troll's feet and rolled between its legs, coming to a stop just behind it. Before the troll figured out where its prey had gone, Jude raised her hand and shouted "Imperio!" Surely this curse would work on such a feeble mind, even though it was less than human. 

The troll stopped dead in its tracks and slowly turned to face the person who'd just spoken. "God, I hope this works," Jude pleaded. The troll just stood there. "Drop your club!" Jude commanded and the troll obeyed, the gnarled club landing with a large crash at its feet. It worked. 

"Quirrell doesn't want me to rough up his helpless troll?" Jude spat contemptuously. "This is going to be fun." She smirked, narrowing her eyes at the troll and raising her hand once again. "I want you to run as fast as you can at that wall, do you understand?" The troll nodded and grunted. "And when your almost there, I want to lower your head like this and keep running." She bent down, making a motion like a line backer on an American football team. The troll nodded. "Ready? I'll count to three." The troll readied himself excitedly for his task. "One, two, three!" Jude shouted and the troll barreled at the wall, colliding head-on with the solid stone structure. A loud crunch sounded on impact and Jude saw a large crack streak up the wall. The troll landed with a thundering crash. The bleeding lump on the creature's head announced that in was down for the count. 

Jude hurried through the other door. Quirrell would have to work a bit harder to take her out of the picture. She hoped she could catch up to him before it was too late, however. 

Stepping through the next door, Jude was surprised to find Quirrell at a table lined with bottles of all shapes and sizes. He was bent over a piece of parchment. Flames erupted in the doorway behind her as well as in front of the door leading onward. Jude smiled. So, the professor was not able to get very far without her help.

Noticing that he was no longer alone, he looked up at Jude and waived her over to examine the parchment. "Come here, I need your help." 

She stood where she was and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. She raised her eyebrows incredulously. "You left me to be slaughtered by that troll." Her voice was icy. There was no reason to keep up the charade of mindless servitude any longer. "You would never have made it this far if it hadn't been for me. Admit it!" 

"Oh, come off it, Jude. I thought you were in with Snape and Dumbledore—those trying to stop me." He looked up from the puzzling parchment and smiled. "And since you've come forward instead of going back, I'll assume you want to help."

"Help?" She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Can he truly believe that she wanted to be in on this? She could certainly pretend to be until she'd found out that the Stone and was sure that no one could get to it. Her cover was not really blown yet. "I'm just here to make sure you don't fuck things up too badly! Honestly, you're the best Lord Voldemort could find?" She walked over to the table and snatched the parchment from his hands. Quirrell was silently seething from her last words, but let her work. She read through the list of clues. It was brilliant, really. She'd have to remember to congratulate Professor Snape on his best logic test yet. He'd put together some other pretty impressive puzzles that tested shrewd thinking skills before, but this one was magnificent. She read through the list several times, pointing at various bottles and muttering to herself. She only had to warn Quirrell to be quiet once before she'd reached her conclusion.

"The smallest bottle—this one here—will get us through the door to the Stone," Jude announced proudly.

"And which will take us back?" Quirrell asked sardonically. Jude narrowed her eyes menacingly and pointed impatiently to a round bottle on the right end of the line. "Fine, you drink that one and go back the way you came and I…" 

"No way!" She cut him off. "There's no way I'm going to let you waltz in there, grab the Stone, and let you take the credit for getting through Hell's Funhouse. I'm going, too!" She balled her fists at her sides. She wouldn't take no for an answer, Quirrell realized.

"Ladies first, then," he said. She reached for the bottle and took a drink. It tasted like extremely cold and dry Vermouth. He watched as she set the bottle back on the table. Jude didn't drop dead in the few moments he let pass, so he decided it was not poison and drank from the bottle as well. 

Walking through the flames, she noticed that the doorway led into a grand rotunda with elegant columns encircling a space lit by a soft, white light from some unseen source. In the center of the room was the gilded and beautiful mirror standing alone. Jude took a few steps forward to examine the curious object, not wanting to believe it was what she knew it must be. 

The Mirror of Erised. 

She let her hand slide over the frame as she read the familiar words that wrapped around it. It was the mirror that she hadn't seen in ten years—the same mirror that she'd tried to destroy in a fit of rage. Reluctantly she let her eyes wander downward and settle on the reflecting surface. She pulled her hand away as if it had been burned. There, reflected in the mirror, she no longer saw herself standing with her long-desired family, but alone, with…

Nothing.

She felt a hand shove her roughly aside. "I see myself holding the Stone—I am presenting it to my master!" He was staring hungrily at the mirror. "But where is it?" Jude was astounded. Dumbledore. This was his bit of magic. Quirrell could not get at the Stone—there was undoubtedly some trick to it that he would never find out. She breathed a sigh of relief. "Come here, girl!" Quirrell grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her in front of the mirror. "You know how it works, don't you! Do one of your tricks! Anything!" He was yelling frantically at her. She looked into the mirror and still saw nothing. She did not desire the Stone—she wanted with everything she possessed to keep it safe and from the hands of Voldemort. And the safest place for it was in this enchanted mirror. 

"I don't know how." 

"You lie!" He spun her around roughly and struck her hard across the face. She hit the cool floor of the room. Looking up, she saw Quirrell, with a crazed, slightly deranged light in his eye, place both hands on the mirror. "Maybe I have to break it!" 

"No! You fool! If you break this mirror, you'll die! It's cursed!" Jude warned the professor frantically. She wondered why she was telling him any of this at all. The truth was that she didn't want to see him die—a helpless pawn being manipulated by a power stronger than he could really grasp. She got to her feet and placed a restraining arm on the professor. "This is the mirror of Erised, I've seen it before. It will kill you if you break it."

"The girl. Make her look again. She is hiding something." Jude could hear the hissing voice from the turban entreat his servant.

Quirrell placed a hand on each of her shoulders and turned her forcefully to face the mirror. "I see nothing," she admitted truthfully.  

"My dear girl, my former student. You have betrayed me once. That might be forgiven. You helped my servant through the spells and enchantments that would have kept the Stone from my grasp. You could have everything back, my dear—power, legions of loyal servants. I will forgive you if you give me the Stone!" His voice chilled her to the bone and she had to fight not to tremble. He recognized her.

"I see nothing." She repeated, her voice hard and impassable.

"Traitor!" the voice spat angrily. "My servant will teach you the loyalty you should have learned years ago". Quirrell turned to her and, in one swift movement, threw her into the pillar behind her. She hit the marble support hard and slumped to the floor. The professor turned back to the mirror, to examine it further. She silently regained her feet and raised her left hand. She would never allow herself to kill another person—it was a promise she'd made to herself after seeing a man die by her own hand. But at least she could knock him out long enough to go for help. 

Just as she was about to shout the curse that would hopefully bring Quirrell down, a familiar voice spoke from the entrance of the chamber from which they'd come only a few minutes before. They both turned quickly to see who had followed them. Jude didn't notice Quirrell's lips twist into a cruel smile—her eyes were locked on the person in the doorway.

"Harry!" Jude's gasp was barely audible. 


	13. Broken

Disclaimer: The usual yada yada. I own nothing of the fabulous world and characters created by J. K. Rowling. She owns them along with a slew of companies that I grow weary of listing. You know them—they gross millions of dollars and I am lucky if my paycheck is over four hundred. They are rich, I am not. They own everything, I own nothing (except Jude, of course, but she'll tell you she's not worth much). Any recognizable conversation in this chapter (and in following chapters) was created by Rowling in _The Sorcerer's Stone _and belongs to her. I merely revamped it with my own character—I wanted to maintain the integrity of the real story and that meant using dialogue from the books to some extent wherever possible.

Author's Note: I just bought Dave Matthews Band's newest CD, _Busted Stuff,_ and their song _Grey Street_ has inspired me so much in the development of Jude—it's kind of an anthem for her. So don't be surprised if you see a lot of the lyrics from that album, especially from _Grey Street_, pop up in the remainder of this story. Well, on to more story-related garble. This is one of the final chapters regarding _Sorcerer's Stone_. Yippee! I've been wanting to move on for a while now. But before I go on, I want to thank my few but wonderful reviewers: **Tajuki**, as always, thanks for the support—I tip my hat to you. **Revere For President**, thanks for the glowing review, you are most gracious and kind. **Mystic Sorceror**, glad you liked Charlie's appearance and I'll see if I can't get him another guest appearance again for your pleasure. And now, on with the show.

Chapter Thirteen: Broken

_'I'm not afraid_

_Of anything in this world_

_There's nothing you can throw at me_

_That I haven't already heard'_

U2, Stuck in a Moment 

            "You!" Harry gasped. Jude noticed the puzzled look that the boy fixed on Quirrel. That look was not spent on Jude—Harry glanced in her direction and Jude saw the immense hatred and confirmed suspicion behind his eyes. So, the boy had never suspected the jumpy professor in the least and was surprised to see him there. He probably thought he would find Snape there with her. Well, at least he'd been right to suspect her—sort of. 

                It was true that she was not who she appeared to be—she was much more and much less. But there was one thing she would never be, and that was a traitor to Dumbledore. But it was useless to explain that to Harry right now. He was in danger—they both were. Her priority had changed the second Harry walked through that door. The Stone was no longer her first concern. She needed to make sure the boy got out of there safely—she was supposed to protect him, and so far, she hadn't done a great job of it. 

                She tore her eyes away from Harry as Professor Quirrel spoke. 

                "Me," he replied calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter." 

                "But I thought—Snape—"

                "Severus?" Quirrel laughed—not his usual quivering treble, Jude noticed, but a cold and sharp laugh. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an over-grown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrel?" 

                Jude, forgotten momentarily by the two, rolled her eyes at this conversation. Did Quirrel think he was some kind of master of disguise? His jumpy, Nancy professor charade hadn't fooled everyone. Professor Snape hadn't been fooled at all by it, and the only reason she hadn't suspected him from the beginning was her determination not to jump to conclusions about anyone before there was real proof to be had. He hadn't even done a good job of keeping up his disguise. Looking back, she could recall several instances where he'd unconsciously abandoned his stutter and could have given himself away. She kicked herself mentally for not giving full weight to such instances before now. But it was too late to think on the 'what if's'—she had to keep Harry alive and, if she could manage it, keep the Stone away from Quirrel. She continued to watch the scene, thinking of ways to get out and waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her move.

                "But Snape tried to kill me!" Harry continued trying to make sense of what he was seeing. 

                "No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match." The corner of Jude's mouth raised into a reluctant smile. She had heard about someone setting fire to Snape at that game, but had not realized that it was a friend of Harry's—she'd always assumed it was a well-timed accident. Harry was lucky to have such friends looking after him. "She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you."

                "Snape was trying to save me?" 

                "Of course," said Quirrel coolly. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really…he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular…and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you tonight." 

                Jude, despite her better judgment, moved swiftly to Quirrel's side, ready to put a stop to anything he might do to the boy. She saw him snap his fingers, causing ropes to spring out of thin air and wrap around Harry.

                Harry turned and looked angrily at Jude, rendering her speechless. She could say nothing to assure the boy—his look had so startled her. He looked exactly like his father the night she and Voldemort had broken into the tiny cottage and murdered his family. She stared into that face for what seemed like an eternity, not able to move or tear her eyes away. It was as if James were accusing her all over again through the eyes of his son. She saw the boy turn back to Quirrel and continue to argue with the man, but she caught nothing of this exchange. Jude forced herself to snap out of it as Quirrel turned again to the mirror. 

                "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrel muttered to himself. He took out his wand and began tapping the gilded frame, still muttering. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this…but he's in London…I'll be far away by the time he gets back…" 

                "Not if I can help it," Jude thought as she listened to the muttering professor. Had he forgotten that she was there entirely, or did he not see her as a threat? Either way, it seemed that she didn't matter anymore. 

                "I saw you and Snape in the forest—" Harry interrupted. Was he keeping him from concentrating on the mirror? Smart kid. But, Jude thought, if he were truly smart, he would have stayed as far away from this place as he could get. 

                "Yes," Jude watched as Quirrel walked idly around to the other side of the mirror. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me—as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side…" 

                Jude stayed rooted to the spot where she stood. She wanted to grab Harry and make a break for the door, but her eyes remained fixed on Quirrel as he examined the mirror, willing him not to find whatever trick was keeping the Stone from his grasp. If he found the Stone, then neither of them could run for very long. They would be hunted and killed along with everyone else who'd stood up to Voldemort in his previous reign of terror. She couldn't let that happen again. 

                Quirrel came back to the front of the mirror. "I see the Stone…I'm presenting it to my master…But where is it?" He turned to Jude, still standing where she'd been before. She was staring back at him with a blank expression. Maybe he thought she'd lost it, gone crazy. 

                He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her back in front of the mirror. Her eyes raked the entire surface of the mirror, seeking something that she did not find. "I still see nothing…Master, forgive me…I don't see anything in the mirror!" He shoved her impatiently out of the way once more. 

                "But Snape always seemed to hate me so much." Harry continued to say anything that came into his head. Jude was grateful that he was keeping Quirrel from giving the mirror his full attention. It left her free to think—to find a way out and keep the Stone safe. 

                "Oh, he does," Jude heard Quirrel reply absently. "Heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead." 

                "But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing—I thought Snape was threatening you…" Jude let her eyes wander from the mirror back to Quirrel and saw a visible sign of fear at the mention of this event. So he wasn't pretending that much—he really was a terrified, little-girl-of-a-wuss.

                "Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions—he's a great wizard and I am weak—."

                "You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped and momentarily ceased in his struggle with the ropes that bound him. Jude hoped that Quirrel would not reveal the truth to this kid—he was already faced with enough. But she knew he would not let the opportunity pass.

                "He's with me wherever I go," Quirrel said coolly. So he was proud that he was being used, being fed off of like a host with a parasite? She let the rest of his words slip past her as she watched Harry struggle with the ropes, inching toward the mirror. 

                Quirrel had once again returned his attention to the mirror. "I don't understand…is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?" 

                Jude stepped forward. "No!" She shouted, not really knowing what she was doing. "I already told you what would happen if you break it." Quirrel shot her a warning glance and she froze once again. He clearly believed her, but was equally as desperate to get at the Stone. 

                "What does this mirror do? How does it work?" He looked pleadingly at Jude, but she remained motionless. "Help me, Master!"

                Jude wasn't surprised when the creepy, icy voice answered Quirrel, but she noticed the look of horror on Harry's face. Her mind was racing. They needed to get out of there. 

                "Use the boy…Use the boy…" the voice hissed. 

                Jude watched cautiously as Quirrel rounded on Harry. 

                "Yes—Potter—Come here." Jude tensed as the ropes fell from Harry and he got to his feet. 

                "Come here," Quirrel commanded once more. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

                Jude pleaded silently with Harry to clear his mind and think of nothing. Jude couldn't see what was reflected in the mirror. She hoped it was the same as what was shown to her. She was about to call to Harry not to think of anything as Quirrel moved in behind him.

                "Well?" he said impatiently. "What do you see?" 

                "I…" she saw Harry's look falter. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he lied. "I—I've won the house cup for Gryffindor." It wasn't a good lie, Jude judged, but to her relief, it seemed as Quirrel bought it. 

                "Get out of the way," he said, pushing Harry aside impatiently. Jude watched as Harry continued to back away from the mirror. What had he seen? Harry looked in her direction and found her staring at him and he froze, seeming unsure of what to do now. She tried to signal for him to run for the door, but had little time before a high voice broke the silence. Quirrel, however, had not spoken. It was Voldemort.

                "He lies…He lies…" 

                "Potter, come back here!" Quirrel shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you see?" Jude tried to read Harry's expression. Behind the fear that was evident in his face, there was something else. Had he discovered where the Stone is hidden?

                "Let me speak to him…face-to-face…" Jude heard the cold, high voice hiss again.

                "Master, you are not strong enough!"

                "I have strength enough…for this…"

                Jude wanted to scream at Harry to run as fast as he could for the door. She wanted to save him from what he was about to see, but her voice caught in her chest. Who knows what Voldemort is still capable of? She needed to think quickly, but she found it hard to think of anything at the moment. Her mind refused to obey her. 

                Quirrel unwrapped his turban as Jude kept her eyes fixed on Harry. Every look of fear and horror on Harry's face was noticed by Jude. And each look was like a dagger in her soul—she was responsible for this, she was responsible for everything this kid had to suffer through.

                "Harry Potter..." it whispered.

                Harry took a step back.

                "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor…I have form only when I can share another's body…but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds…Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks…you saw faithful Quirrel drinking it for me in the forest…and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own…Now…why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?" 

                Jude's mouth dropped open. She gasped for air, fighting with her lungs that wouldn't allow her enough breath to speak, to shout to Harry to run. He had the Stone—he could run and save himself and the Stone. She was relieved to see Harry stumble backwards.

                "Don't be a fool," the face snarled. "Better save your own life and join me…or you'll meet the same end as your parents…They died begging me for mercy…" 

                "Liar!" Harry shouted. 

                Quirrel advanced on Harry little by little, the deformed face still staring at the boy. Jude tried to move, but felt rooted to the spot just like when Tommy Malloy had placed the Leg-Locking Curse on her in her third year. It was as if she'd become disassociated from the scene before her. 

                "How touching…I always value bravery…yes, boy, your parents were brave…Your father died first, and he put up a courageous fight…" Jude almost couldn't believe what she was hearing. Why didn't he just tell the boy the real story—she couldn't see that he had anything to gain or to lose either way by the lie. Still, she was grateful that he hadn't told the truth—it may make things difficult if he'd shattered every confidence the boy may have in her still. "But your mother needn't have died…she was trying to protect you…Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

                "Never!" Harry shouted. 

                At that moment, Jude broke away from her thoughts. Whatever held her to that spot had released her and she pushed quickly past Quirrel. "Run, Harry! Go, now!" She shouted frantically, placing herself between Quirrel and the boy. He backed a few paces away from her and toward the door, but then stopped and stared at her with a puzzled expression. This was unbelievable, Jude thought—the boy didn't trust her, even when she was telling him to get out. "Run!" She could say nothing else to make him follow her orders. Everything happened so quickly. She felt a hand roughly seize her by the collar and haul her backwards. She felt a snap as the silver chain around her neck gave into the strain. In the next instant she heard something shatter and felt her body slam against something solid. 

A second or maybe minutes later—she couldn't tell—she was lying sprawled among shards of broken glass. She tried to raise herself up on the palms of her hands and get to her feet. The glass biting into her skin assured her that she was not dead—it hurt too much. Her feet were caught on something that she could not free them from. She looked down at them to see what was keeping her from getting up. She saw her feet—she knew they were hers because they had on her worn trainers—draped over a beautifully gilded frame laying on its side, two golden, clawed feet sticking straight up into the air. Her ankles were cut and bleeding, she could see but not really feel it. 

She rested on her elbows, resigning the fight with the frame to free her feet, and took a deep breath. Pain shot through her stomach and her back and—everywhere. She bent her head to the ground and saw glass glinting all around her. The polished and reflective surfaces from the shards were not shining as they had before. They seemed to have a glossy gleam to them—as if they were wet. The glass was wet. And red. It was blood. Her blood? She didn't know—her head was becoming too fuzzy to think. She touched her white t-shirt with a cut and bloodied hand. It was no longer white, but now had the same red color as the glass.

Her side stung as her finger made contact with the crimson-colored shirt. She felt something hard and jagged embedded just above her hip. Glass? She supposed it was—it was everywhere else. Her hand pressed to the ground that was supporting her slid on the slick shards, no longer able to keep her up. Letting herself fall back to the ground, she sighed and rested her head on her outstretched arm. It was already beginning not to hurt anymore. The edges of the room were already becoming fuzzy and faded. It wouldn't be long now, she thought. All the red would soon enough turn to black and it will be over. She couldn't remember what she was doing here, but knew it must have been important. Did she win? Was it about winning? She couldn't remember—didn't want to remember. She just wanted to sleep—and as soon as the lights went out she knew she could finally rest. Her breath slowed and the pain ended. The last spot of light that swam before her eyes faded to gray before finally giving into black.


	14. All That You Build, All That You Break

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. Any recognizable conversation is from _The Sorcerer's Stone_ and is the property of J.K. Rowling. 

Author's Note: Well, this is the last chapter dealing with _The Sorcerer's Stone_ material. I hope I have done a good job of maintaining the integrity of the First Book of Rowling's in my little story. And I hope it hasn't been like reading the same old stuff over again. Anyway, we move on from here and the road gets a little bumpy for our anti-heroine, so hang on to your hats. 

Chapter Fourteen: All That You Build, All That You Break

'And if the darkness is to keep us apart 

_And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off_

_And if your glass heart should crack_

_And for a second you turn back_

_Oh no, be strong_

_Walk on'_

U2, Walk On 

                "I feared I might be too late."

                "You nearly were. I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer—" 

                "Not the Stone, boy, you—the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

                He passed a weary hand over his eyes. This tedious tete-a-tete was giving him a headache and he didn't know how much more he could take before he'd have no choice but to turn Madam Pomfrey on them. The Headmaster had been explaining what had happened to Harry for the last fifteen minutes. 

                "After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them." 

                "Spoken like a true philosopher," Professor Snape grumbled moodily. He had no idea how the old man put up with such annoying questions from such an overly curious child. And he thought Jude had a special knack for trying his patience when she was nearly his age! He unconsciously closed his fingers tighter around the cold hand that lay in his. 

                _As much money and life as one could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all. _The professor shook his head at these words as the conversation turned to Jude. She wouldn't know what to do with wealth if she had it. And why would a girl who'd tried to end her life twice want immortality? The thought seemed ridiculous to him and he couldn't hold in a sardonic smile at Potter's ill-founded accusation that Jude was helping Quirrell get the Stone. The boy who owed his life to her had maintained to Dumbledore that Jude was trying to get the Stone for Voldemort, but in the end had tried to help him escape and had nearly died for it. The boy believed that she was guilty, but had turned honorable in the end. 

He was dead wrong and didn't even know it—she'd been honorable the entire time. 

                Professor Snape was thankful that a curtain separated them from the rest of the room—the anger that seethed behind his black eyes was enough to frighten any child. His rage was assuaged only minimally as Dumbledore explained to the boy Jude's loyalties (not the full story of course, this was not the time). The last thing she'd ever want would be to hand Voldemort back his terrible powers and allow him to begin a new reign of terror. He knew that and Dumbledore knew that. But Jude would forever be proving herself, her loyalty to people like Potter. 

                "How is she?" Madam Pomfrey poked her head around the curtain. 

                Snape sighed heavily and replied dully, "the same." From the corner of his eye he could discern the stout nurse shake her head minutely before she left. He forced his gaze from the hospital wing floor to look on his beloved student. She was still pale, still cold and still unconscious. The only color offered by her pallid complexion was the deep blues and purples of the bruises on her face and hands and the dull gray of the circles under her eyes. And red. The angry red gashes and scratches from the glass of the mirror. Most of the cuts were bandaged with thick white gauze, which along with the white of the sheets on the beds, the white of the walls and floors and the white of the curtains, made the uncovered cuts stand out on her pale skin like flame etched in snow. 

                "You can't die, you know." He spoke to her as if she caught his every word. "You've tried to leave before and have failed every time." He hoped she would realize this fact and come back, but even he had a tough time believing she would survive this as she had countless other trials she had been faced with before. She'd broken the Mirror of Erised. A curse now demanded her life in payment for its destruction. But, then, why hadn't she died immediately? She certainly could have—she'd lost a lot of blood by the time McGonagall, Dumbledore and himself had discovered the scene. The only answer he could contrive was that she had not broken the mirror, but Quirrel had. He had died and the mirror's curse had been satisfied. Was it a flimsy theory? Snape tried to reason that it was a strong possibility, but felt his mind clouded by the false hopes it offered. 

                It had been three days already. He wondered how many more days he would wait to see if his theory would be proved correct. However long it took, he would wait—he hated being proved wrong.

***

                "Thank you for coming, Severus. I know that there are other places you would rather be at the moment." Dumbledore waived him to a chair in front of his desk. In the chair next to him sat the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Professor Snape nodded in greeting to the Minister and promptly took his seat. 

"Cornelius has asked that you be present since it was, in fact, you who first successfully cracked the case. The Minister, in light of how events have played out, is paying us this visit to find out what happened and I thought that you would be able to clear a few things up for him."

                Dumbledore finished, his fingers steepled under a serious and grim frown. Snape knew that by the look on the Headmaster's face, the Minister was here to find someone to blame for the botched plan. Voldemort was supposed to be captured, but instead, he was still on the loose, one person was dead and two almost died. 

                "I understand that a former student of yours," Fudge began, looking significantly at Professor Dumbledore as he spoke, "Miss Elliot, was involved in the ah…altercation." 

                So, he'd found who he wanted to pin this one on. Professor Snape could hardly be impressed—Fudge always did pick the easy and obvious answer. 

                "She was allowed by the Department of the Mysteries to relocate here without penalty as long as she aided our cause in the capacity of looking after the safety of our little celebrity." Fudge almost beamed as if Potter was his own child. Snape continued to listen, growing impatient. "However, we have had word that she was involved—shall we say 'questionably' in the events of last week." 

                "I have explained those circumstances to you, Cornelius—Miss Elliot was never aiding Voldemort," Snape was amused to see Fudge blanch at the name, but Dumbledore pressed boldly onward, "and Quirrell. She was there to prevent the Stone from falling into Voldemort's hands. And I believe that if it hadn't been for her, Quirrell would have been successful in retrieving the Stone for his master." Dumbledore's voice was becoming hard and tense but still held a great deal of patience. 

                "Yes, but that is hearsay as far as the Ministry is concerned. She was supposed to be looking after the boy _only._ It was not in the deal that she be involved in any way related to the Stone. And there were no witnesses to prove that she was not subverting our cause…"

                "And there are likewise no witnesses to the contrary, Minister," Snape interrupted Fudge coldly. 

                "Yes, well…there is the boy's testimony…" Fudge looked hopefully at Dumbledore. 

                "The students have already been sent home for the summer holidays, Cornelius. There is no way you could question Harry now. Besides, his story is consistent with ours." Dumbledore's expression was immovable. 

                "Well, then I'll need to speak to Miss Elliot."

                "No." Snape's voice was flat and cold and as equally immovable as Dumbledore's.

                "Miss Elliot has been unconscious for over a week. She was injured, according to Harry, while she was trying to protect him…and the Stone." The Headmaster's eyes gleamed in triumph, but Fudge would not be easily swayed. 

                "Yes, she is rather famous for…switching loyalties. She betrayed You-Know-Who, what makes you think she would never betray you, Albus?" Cornelius smiled an oily politician's smile. It was the last straw.

                In one stealth movement, Professor Snape had gotten to his feet and half way to the door before Fudge could register the reaction to his insult. Reaching for the doorknob, Snape ripped the door open with little concealed fury. With his black robes billowing behind him, he realized what a melodramatic scene he must be making but didn't care to analyze his clichéd actions. He just wanted to get out. Over the groan of the protesting hinges of the abused door, the professor, in his haste, almost stumbled over a small house elf that was about to knock when the surface was pulled away from its tiny hand, not hearing the small squeak of surprise it emitted. 

                "Sorry, Sir," the elf apologized for being in the way of Snape's quick getaway. "But I was sent by Madam Pomfrey to fetch you, Sir. She's awake, Sir." 

                Professor Snape did not look back to note the profoundly relieved expression on the Headmaster's face—or the extremely interested and impertinent look on the Minister's—at the overheard news. Quickly side-stepping the elf, he walked swiftly down the corridors that led to the Hospital Wing. 

***

                Throwing open the door to the infirmary, he was by Madam Pomfrey's side in an instant. The cheery nurse held one of Jude's limp arms in a tentative grasp, checking her pulse. She was still as ghastly pale as she'd been when he'd left her earlier. The only difference in her appearance was that her gray eyes were now open. A drowsy, unfocused stare was fixed on nothing at all. This worried the professor, but he noted that Madam Pomfrey seemed delighted. 

                "Is she alright, Poppy?" he asked, confusedly.

                "Of course she is. She's just tired. Go ahead and talk to her if you like, she'll know it's you." 

                Moving to the opposite side of the bed, so to stay out of Poppy's way, he placed a hand over her battered and bandaged one laying next to his favored student. "Jude?" 

                Her gaze moved slowly to the professor's face and he smiled. His theory was correct and she would be fine. In time. 

                "How do you feel?" 

                "Best nap I've had in a while." The reply was barely above a whisper. Her pale lips pressed together to form a weak smile. A little worse for the wear, but she was still there, no mistake. 

                "Glad to hear that. You were looking like hell there, for a while…"

                At that moment the doors creaking on their ancient hinges announced a visitor. Or two. Fudge, followed closely by a weary and hassled-looking Dumbledore, waltzed into the room with all the arrogant confidence of his office. 

                "So happy to see that you are awake, Miss Elliot." The Minister ignored Dumbledore's hand on his arm as a warning to be cautious. "There are a few questions I would like you to clarify for me, if you don't mind."

                "I mind, Sir. She is in no state to be questioned by you or anyone else." Madam Pomfrey had come to stand directly in front of the Minister, blocking his view of her patient. 

                "Please, Madam. This should take no longer than a few minutes." He held both hands up, palms out, as to show that he meant no harm. He sidestepped the stout and threatening witch so that he faced Jude. "Miss Elliot, did you or did you not attempt to aid You-Know-Who in acquiring the Stone?" 

                Jude looked frantically at Dumbledore. "He got the Stone?" she managed to whisper hoarsely. The recollections came flooding back as if some levy in her mind had broken. Harry had the Stone. Where was he? Was he all right? 

                Dumbledore recognized the pleading look and answered her every question as if he could read her mind. "Relax, my dear. Harry is fine. He went home with the other students two days ago. Voldemort did not succeed in obtaining his prize. The Minister simply chose his words poorly." Fudge didn't even seem to register the insult. 

                "Very well. Did you aid You-Know-Who in _the attempt_ to acquire the Stone?" 

                Jude simply stared. Was he patronizing her or was he really that daft? 

                "That's quite enough, Minister." Professor Snape would not listen to any more accusations. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey may have the patience to deal with this ridiculous character, but his idiot tolerance was running low at the moment.

"Honestly, Cornelius, is this really necessary? Yes Voldemort managed to slip your trap, but I will vouch for Miss Elliot. She has served our cause most loyally and any betrayal from her will be on my head. Are you satisfied with this?" Dumbledore turned a questioning glare on the Minister, who looked as if he had no intention of budging on this matter. "Come, Cornelius. Madam Pomfrey is looking rather dangerous at the moment and I do not wish to try her patience further."

                "Oh, very well." Fudge threw his hands at his sides like a spoiled child not getting its way. "But," he raised an accusing finger at Jude, "I will have people watching you like a hawk. One foot out of line and there will be consequences. People like you don't stick to one side too long. We'll see where your true loyalties lie soon enough." He shoved his garish bowler hat onto his head and strode importantly out of the door, followed by Dumbledore shaking his head in disbelief at the Minister's behavior. 

                "Hmmm." Madam Pomfrey began her usual hustle and bustle around her patient. "Well, I deem that enough excitement for one day, dear. You need rest." Jude didn't feel that she could argue even if she wanted to.

                Professor Snape settled into a chair at Jude's side, watching Madam Pomfrey flutter around like an industrious bee. "Oh, I almost forgot." He reached into a pocket, Jude's attention reclaimed for the moment. "You dropped this." From his fingers dangled the familiar silver chain, mended as if it had never been broken at all. He placed the charm in her hand. "I thought you might want it back."

                She smiled faintly as she clasped the silver star to her chest before falling back into a deep sleep.

***

                She sat up in the pristine, white sheets. Poppy's insisting that Jude remain in bed while she play the mother hen was grating on her nerves. It had been two days since she'd been awake and she was already going stir crazy. She had to get out of this bed, out of this room, but she was still too dizzy to even make it to the window—not that she'd let on to that, of course. 

                The light spilling in through the window made it not so unpleasant to be stuck there, she supposed. The crumpled parchment in her hand had been the only entertainment for the past hour. Professor Snape had been good enough to spend every spare moment with her, but she refused to be such a monopoly on his time. She read and reread the lines on the page. It was the letter Rhys had sent her during Christmas—she'd used a Summoning Charm to get it the day before. What she would give if only she could be where he was right now. She missed him more than she could recall ever missing a person before. When she'd felt the blood and strength draining from her body, all she could remember thinking was that she regretted that she had left Rhys that way and would never see him again. She remembered promising herself that if she made it out of that mess alive, she would go back and make things right. 

                After all, she hadn't done many good deeds before. Surely this one could buy her some happiness now, right?

No, she didn't deserve a thing. She'd failed in her mission—Harry nearly died for the third time and it was all her fault. Only by some miracle or a sick twist of fate had everything turned out okay—it was not by her doing. 

                But she didn't care. She was determined to leave this place behind her for good. She wanted that life—her happy paradise—more than anything else in the world. And if a near-death experience was good for anything, it was for putting things in perspective. None of this mattered to her—sure she had friends here, but her enemies here by far outnumbered them. And those she cared for seemed to see her as merely a debtor—someone who owed something. Dumbledore had used her. He may not have intended to do so, but it was just the same. The Ministry had used her. Everyone had. 

                She was tired of proving herself over and over to people who would never believe a word she said no matter what she did, no matter who she tried to save. She was done trying. Adda had always trusted her. Rhys had always loved her, no matter what. And she was no longer sure that even her dark little secret would keep him away from her. He loved her. It said so, right there in the letter. Her past was nothing to her any longer. Rhys was all that mattered to her now. 

                She flung her legs over the side of the bed and tested her weight on her feet. A little shaky but they would hold. Steadying herself with her wrapped and bandaged hands on the sheets, she pushed off from the support and headed for the door. She prayed that she could make it all the way back to her room and pack her things before Madam Pomfrey or anyone else realized she was gone—or before she passed out in the halls. She didn't notice when the faded parchment she'd carried around for months fell to the floor by the deserted hospital bed.

***

                Poppy's frantic words had been a bit frightening at first—until he learned what the alarm was all about. He'd hurried quickly down to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey was waiting for him. They were the only two people standing in the deserted infirmary. So Jude had left. It merited only mild surprise—he figured something like this would happen. 

                "She's not strong enough for this yet," the nurse protested. 

                "Jude knows what she can handle and what she can't, Poppy." He hoped his reassurance would be enough for the old witch.

                "And my opinion means nothing? I didn't serve ten years at St. Mungo's for nothing. My professional judgment shouldn't be just written off like this. I'm not some crackpot old hag selling cures in an alley, you know." Madam Pomfrey continued to fume as she busied herself.

                "I know, Poppy. But I'm sure she'll be fine." His reply was half-hearted. Something on the floor by the bed had caught his attention and pulled it away from the conversation. It was a piece of gray parchment. A letter. As he read the fading lines of writing, he smiled. Jude would kill him if she knew he was reading this. 

                "Good luck, then, Jude." Folding the parchment and placing it in his pocket, he turned to leave the empty infirmary. 


	15. Brighter Days

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. 

Author's Note: My favorite little bad girl is back at Cambridge and the events of this chapter and the following ones will coincide with Harry's second year. Jude will not be returning to Hogwarts—being thoroughly hacked off by the events of last year. So these are a few fun chapters with my darling, Rhys. Hang in there—these chapters are not just for fun and games, though.

Chapter Fifteen: Brighter Days

_'Where are you going? Where do you go?_

_Are you looking for answers_

_ To questions under the stars?_

_Well if along the way, you are grown weary_

_You can rest with me till a brighter day,_

_It's okay.  
I am no Superman, I have no answers for you_

_I am no hero, oh that's for sure_

_But I do know one thing for sure_

_Is where you are is where I want to be.'_

_Dave Matthews Band, Where Are You Going?_

                The air was crisp and dry, not a hint of oncoming rain. Only the occasional cloud marred the picturesque inky sky studded with its myriad of twinkling stars. Unlike the last time she'd stepped off the train in this station, the heavens were not venting their pent-up fury at her. It was a clear and beautiful night in Cambridge. She breathed it all in. Ouch. No more deep breaths—the pain was excruciating. 

                The long sleeves and jeans did much to cover the various scratches and bandages on her arms and legs, but her face, flecked with cuts and colored with bruises made her appear as if she were running from an abusive husband. She let the crowd in general have their little assumptions—she wasn't about to correct them, something about going toe to toe with a dark lord over some magical stone didn't seem like it would fly with the average inquirer. 

                Traveling light—only as much as she could lift with her shaky arms and fuzzy head—she managed to make good time. Having left Hogwarts only six hours earlier, she was now standing on the street in front of the small, quaint bakery. It was her dream to make this place her permanent home—with a real family. This was the closest she'd ever come to fashioning her reality into her dream. 

                But the last time she'd stood in front of this shop on the corner of Eden Street, bags in hand, the rain pounding down on the pavement all around her, she was running. Trying to get away. This was different—she meant to show up here. This was where she wanted to be—not just some safe place to hide from everything. 

                She was done hiding. It hadn't worked before. She wouldn't try to make it work now. The past was dead to her—but she would not try to sweep it under the rug. Rhys would know everything soon enough. Would he even still be there? Was Darcy still there? Or had everything changed in the short year she'd been gone. 

                Adda was still there—her name was still painted on the immaculate windows. Well, here goes nothing, Jude thought, walking into the small shop. Standing on the street eulogizing her Paradise would have been enough to satisfy her, but the dizziness demanded she wrap it up and head inside and sit before she passed out. 

                The tinkling of the familiar bell. The smell of croissants and cookies and coffee. The warm lights driving away the darkness of the night. She missed this place. A worn face, wrinkled into a smile, poked up from behind the counter. Jude expected the elated smile, the grandmotherly embrace, and the billions of questions, but she wasn't bargaining on the tears. The old woman melted at the sight of her. 

                "Jude!" Adda scurried out from behind the counter, immediately folding Jude into her arms in a hug that she wasn't aware that she missed. "I didn't think I would see you again, child." She sobbed into Jude's shoulder. "Where on God's green earth have you been?" she questioned, stepping back to survey her. Her face informed Jude that the impression her appearance made was not a good one. Adda's face fell. "Good heavens, child. What has happened to you?" 

                Jude sighed. Should she tell her the truth? No, Adda would never understand. She needed to think of something believable and fast. "Car accident," she blurted out, not even convincing her own ears. 

                Adda frowned. "So, where have you been this whole time then, dear? You said you would visit me."

                Jude took a seat at the nearest table, not trusting her legs to keep her standing. "I had to do a favor for an old friend." 

                Adda took the seat across from her. "Dear, I can tell a lie when I see one. That was no car accident that you were in. I don't know why you don't trust me."

                The old woman's words shocked Jude. So she wasn't going to be able to lie her way out of something. This had to be a first for her. "Okay, but I'm warning you—the truth is far more unbelievable than any story I could make up."

                "It always is, dear." Adda wrapped her worn fingers around Jude's bandaged hands. 

                "Well, I did leave Cambridge to help an old friend. I went back to my former school in Scotland." Jude paused to gather her courage. So far so good. "The man that came to see me on the night that I left," Jude saw Adda nod. "He was one of my teachers. He asked me to come back and keep an eye on a boy that was starting school there."

                Adda looked confused. "Was the boy in any danger?" 

                Jude nodded. "This is where the story gets unbelievable." She took another deep breath, trying not to wince at the pain in her side.

                Taking advantage of the pause, Adda finished for her. "You're a witch?" At the shocked and surprised look Jude shot at her, she clarified, "Rhys told me a while ago. Oh, Jude you can't blame him. He told me years ago about himself, and when he found out you were the same, he was just so excited." 

                "Are you…?" Jude managed to stammer. 

                "Oh, no dear. I'm just a regular boring person." She smiled warmly at Jude. "So, the boy was in trouble?" Adda prompted.

                "Yes," Jude regained her train of thought. "He was responsible for the defeat of a dark lord that had been terrorizing our people for decades. But he was not destroyed and had made attempts to regain his power…and we suspected that he would come after the boy. And since I was familiar with the…case, I was asked to look out for him." 

                Adda looked significantly at the bruises and cuts on Jude's face. "And I see you met up with this 'dark lord'. Well, I am glad you were not killed, then. Jude, I don't know what I would have done, what Rhys would have done, if you would have died."

                Jude smiled. It was reassuring the way that Adda fawned over her. "I know. When I was…well, I couldn't help regretting that I might not see either of you again. And that I left Rhys in such a state. It was horrible of me, really."  Jude suddenly realized what was so different about the place. A dog's bark had not greeted her when she walked through the door. Where was Darcy? And where was Rhys?

                Adda chuckled softly as she watched Jude glance worriedly around the store. "He moved out into the real world almost ten months ago," she answered her questions without her needing to voice them. "I have been here alone. But he comes to visit me every now and again." At the look on Jude's face, she knew she would have to give more information. "He works for a firm in London. He's an architect, just like he always dreamed of being. Don't worry, dear. He'll be back."

                It had not occurred to Jude that while her life kept going, kept pressing onward, that everyone else's would change as well. She suddenly, painfully missed Rhys. But at the same time, she was grateful that she would have a little time to sort out everything before she had to see him again. There was a lot for her to straighten out in her life before she could drag Rhys back into things. She didn't want him to see her like this. She also had to steal up as much courage as possible before she was ready to reveal all of her horrid secrets to him. But until then, she would content herself with spending every possible moment with Adda. She really did miss the old woman terribly.

***

                The night was wearing on and Jude was growing tired. Adda must have noticed because she urged her to go upstairs to her old room and get some rest. Jude did not argue with the woman and after one last hug from her friend, she climbed to the landing and opened the door. 

                The rooms beyond were dark. The smell of disuse greeted her upon her entry. It was lonely to see a place where she and Rhys had spent countless hours together completely abandoned. There would be no rest for her here tonight. 

                She drug one of the chairs wearily from the table over to the large window facing the street. She sat down, hugging her arms over her chest and propping her feet up on the panes of the glass. The moon was full and bright with the stars twinkling like stunning diamonds in the ebony expanse. It was a beautiful night. 

                The thought struck her as odd that, even after a couple of attempts to end her own life by her hands, she had fought death so hard this last time. But, she reasoned, she'd never had someone like Rhys to live for. How could she give in to death when she had everything she'd ever wanted waiting for her here? She passed the night staring at the sky, thankful for a second chance to change her life. She would find the answers to her questions here, she was sure of it. She could be happy but not by running from her past. If telling Rhys was the price she had to pay for the life she'd always wanted, then she would. It wouldn't be easy, but she loved a challenge. 

***

                "What do you mean 'she left'?" The Minister was pacing uneasily in front of his desk. 

                "I mean, Cornelius," he clarified, folding his hands on his desk, "that she went back to Cambridge. Her task was completed here. She is free to do what she wishes now."

                "No such freedom has been granted to her, Albus. She must inform the Ministry of any plans she has to relocate. She is still a threat to security as far as the Department of the Mysteries is concerned." Minister Fudge was trying his utmost at controlling his temper. 

                "She is no threat to you, Cornelius, I guarantee you. She has resumed her life as a Muggle. Finishing her last year at the university, so I hear." Dumbledore's placating tone seemed to assuage the Minister's fears somewhat and he took a seat in front of the Headmaster. 

                "Albus, I know you and your staff have a soft spot where the girl is concerned. I am not persecuting her for the mere sport of it, I assure you." He rubbed his eyes in a weary manner. As a politician, he prided himself on having the perfect gestures for every occasion. He would have everyone believe that he was just doing his duty to the people by making sure that traitors such as this girl were kept under a strict watch, not that he wanted to ruin this girl's life just for a little revenge. But the truth was that he loved the chase—making people who'd escaped justice pay was what made his job worthwhile. And she would pay, later if not sooner. "I am only looking out for the safety and well being of the people who elected me Minister. It is my job, you know."

                "I know, Cornelius." It didn't matter what he said—he knew that full well. Cornelius would see things in whichever way he chose to see things. "But I have known Miss Elliot for ten years. For the most part, she has obeyed every rule the Ministry has placed in front of her. She is one of the most trustworthy people I have had the pleasure to know." He chanced a glance at the Minister to see how the ever so slight insult was received. The Minister blanched almost imperceptibly. The Headmaster smiled. "And if you cannot take her word for it, Minister, please take mine."

                Fudge rose to his feet. Obviously the old man still believed his precious model student to be innocent of the affairs of the last year. He would be of no help to him in this matter. He would be on his own on this one. Replacing the bowler hat on his head, he extended his hand to the Headmaster. "Then, I will have to content myself with your word, old friend. And you can assure me that she is in Cambridge at this very moment, living as a Muggle and attending school?"

                Dumbledore nodded. "I received a letter from an old friend on the Board there. He informed me that she has registered for the upcoming semester." He handed the Minister a letter, which was perused most ravenously. 

                All seemed to be as Dumbledore had assured him. "Well, she will still have to be watched…at least for a while," he added after a slight glance from the old man. "But," he continued in a hopeful tone, "if all goes well and she stays out of trouble, I will personally call off the hounds." Turning to the door, he smiled back at the Headmaster in what he calculated as an innocent and good-intentioned appearance. "Good day, Albus. And thank you for your time." 

                "Don't mention it, Cornelius." Dumbledore rose as well to see his guest to the door. 

                Cornelius Fudge stepped out into the summer sunshine. As soon as he was back at the Ministry, he would call a meeting with the Department of the Mysteries. "That girl will be watched like a hawk before sunset." He chuckled and tossed his cane in the air, catching it deftly with the other hand.

***

                She didn't know why she'd asked him to meet her there. It didn't exactly hold a lot of happy memories for her, and she was sure he'd feel the same way about this place. But bathed in the late winter sun with silent, still waters gliding by, it seemed as if nothing bad could have ever happened here. 

                "I hope he comes," she sighed. 

                "Well, if you were expecting someone, I'll just shove off, then." 

                Jude jumped at the reply. She wasn't aware that she'd said anything aloud. Turning around swiftly, she saw the familiar figure of Rhys, hands in his pockets and a lopsided grin on his face. He had a way of looking handsome without even trying. 

                "Rhys." She tried to measure her excitement, not wanting to seem too eager to see him. But her heart leaped in her chest and she could hardly breathe. 

                He crossed the last small distance between them and wrapped her up in his arms. "I've missed you, Jude," he whispered into her hair where one hand was already entwined in the straight locks at her neck. 

                She pulled herself tightly into his embrace. He and Adda were the only two people who had ever hugged her—that she could recall. It felt good to be so close to someone she loved so much. "I've missed you too," she confessed, burying her face in his shoulder. 

                Pulling back from her, he asked her a question that had been on his mind for a year. "Where have you been all this time, Love?"

                "Scotland, actually." She hoped her explanation didn't sound lame. "I was asked to come back to my old school as assistant to my former Headmaster." 

                "That's great, Love." He sounded genuinely happy for her. "And when do you go back?" he asked, arms still wrapped adoringly around her. 

                "I…don't, actually. I turned down the offer to come back." She settled her head back into his shoulder. It had been torture to spend the last few months getting herself together, knowing that the whole time, he was simply waiting for her. A few weeks after she'd returned from Hogwarts, she'd sent him a letter, asking him for forgiveness and time. She needed a few months to sort things out and gather a reserve of courage large enough to tackle what she had planned. She'd originally asked him to meet her at the Midsummer Fair in July, but found it impossible to wait that long to see him again. She'd eventually broken down and begged him to meet her on Silver Street Bridge. 

                "Why?" he asked, shocked that she would turn down such an opportunity. 

                "A lot of reasons, but mostly, I missed you." She hoped it didn't sound cliché and unoriginal. 

                He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her temple. She could feel him smiling. He brushed the hair away from her face and his hand brushed a small scar on her jaw. "What's this?" he asked, bringing her face closer to his scrutinizing gaze. 

                She sighed. She was not ready to tell him everything. That was all postponed until July, at the Midsummer Fair, where she would tell him everything. "It's nothing…it's everything, actually. Rhys, I have a lot to tell you. But not here, not now. I still want you to meet me at the Commons on July the Seventh. I promise to tell you everything there." She held both of his hands in her shaky grasp, her glare cast deep into his eyes, begging him to agree to anything she said. "I'll tell you everything, I promise."

                He sighed and drew her back into him. "Sure thing, Love. I'll be wherever you say, whenever you say. I love you." 

                She didn't want this to end. Just standing here, like this forever would have suited her every wish. She didn't want Rhys to go back to London where his new life was waiting for him. She didn't want to go back to Adda's just yet, where everything was the same as it had always been, yet wholly different without Rhys there. But come July, she'd have everything she'd ever wanted or she would know for certain that she could never have it.


	16. The Truth

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from the creation of this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Sixteen: The Truth

_"How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be when there is no help in truth!"_

_Sophocles_

                _Hail, Mary, full of grace…_

                She couldn't help it. It was comforting to repeat the words over and over. She wasn't even Catholic, but the dogma had been ingrained in her since she was a toddler. Mrs. Bertram was a staunch believer in the faith and brought up every single one of her charges to know what to do with a set of rosary beads. Most children who'd grown up under her instruction either became good little Catholics or disillusioned hedonists bent on attaining their own will without help from God or anyone else.

                But Jude had run away from that place even before her First Communion—not that she would have been allowed to participate anyway. Mrs. Bertram used to warn her that because she was evil, she would be struck dead by lightening if the Body of Christ even touched her lips. This always confused Jude. She'd seen older boys and girls at their First Communion, and the only thing she ever saw was a priest with wafers and wine—no body. And when she questioned Mrs. Bertram on this matter, the old woman always assured her that she was bound straight for Hell for such blasphemy. 

                Jude figured she was bound for such a place, but not on account of some silly doctrine. No, by now, she had far worse sins under her belt. Still, the words comforted her in times of turmoil, such as now. 

                The day had dawned sunny and bright, the perfect day for a fair. As the little children around her twittered and chattered with high anticipation, Jude only felt dread welling up inside her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the warm morning sun. 

                _Hail, Mary, full of grace…_

                No one was listening to her up there, she was sure of it. But the words calmed her as she repeated them. It must be psychological, she reasoned. She crossed the street toward the Commons where merchants and artisans were setting up tents and musicians and thespians were rehearsing their theatricals. It was always a sight to behold—modern people trying to recreate something of the past. A sixteenth-century fair where one can meander through tents of synthetic, waterproof materials, hear _Scarborough Fair_ played on the electric guitar, and see a group of teens with badly-dyed, raven hair try to re-create some faux-Gothic look with a little zinc face paint, eyeliner and mascara, and a lot of black cloaks and robes. It was a sight to behold. 

                Jude wandered through the maze, lost in her thoughts. It would be hard to find her regular spot, a nice and shady piece of ground under the arms of a large Poplar, amid all of these tents. She hadn't told Rhys exactly where to meet her, but she was sure he would know. She used to come to that very spot every chance she got just to read or enjoy the scenery with Darcy. He would know.

                She resumed the task of silently steeling herself for the job she was about to undertake. This may be the toughest task she had faced. Betraying dark lords and warding off bullies was nothing compared to what she was about to do. In only a few hours she would have secured her happiness forever or she would be faced with the harsh reality that she could never make her dreams real. She found her tree and slowly sank to the grass that covered its roots. 

                _Hail, Mary, full of grace…_

                It was ludicrous to believe that anyone was listening to her up there. Even if there was someone to hear her prayers, what made her think that she deserved their attention? She didn't. Any faith she'd had in these words was crushed long ago. She had no faith in that grace, only a little faith in those she cared for, and even less faith in herself. She didn't know if she could go through with this. 

                "Hullo, Love." She looked up from the grass where her gaze rested to see Rhys standing in front of her. 

                She smiled and got to her feet, brushing the dirt from her hands on her jeans. "Hey." 

                He took her hand and led her down the path before them between the merchants. "Love, I know you have something really important to tell me, I mean, that's the reason you've been keeping me away, right? And why you asked me to come here." He looked down and noticed her nod. "Well, we have plenty of time to worry about that, Love." 

                She furrowed her brow in an enquiring manner. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him. Kissing her forehead, he continued as she entwined her fingers with his. 

                "At six o'clock, you may tell me anything you want to. But, until then, you are not to bring up any other subject that may be a drag on the first entire day I get to spend with you in a whole year." She laughed softly. Leave it to Rhys to make even the most difficult situation better. 

                "Deal," she agreed. She could think of worse ways to spend the time. At least now she could have a few hours of happiness before possibly ruining every chance she had at it. 

                "You promise? No talking about things which make you sad until six tonight? Only how great I look today and how much you love me." 

                Jude couldn't fight a smile. He was so good at making her forget everything but him. "I promise." 

                After a few moments of silent strolling, Jude was struck by an odd thought.  "Rhys, where's Darcy?" 

                "Oh, I let Lex keep her today. He wanted to use my precious girl to pick up chicks. I didn't want to let her go, put he gave me those pathetic puppy dog eyes. What kind of friend would I be anyway if I didn't help him get laid?"

Jude huffed a little, disappointed sigh. "I was hoping to see her today, though. I miss her just as much as you." 

                Rhys made a shocked noise. 

                "What? You thought you were the only one I've been missing?" 

                He nodded reluctantly and sniffed as if he were about to cry. 

                "Oh, come off it, you big baby." She wrapped her arm around his waist and brought him closer to her, bending her face upward to meet his. This would be so much easier, she thought, if only she were half a foot taller. Luckily, he got the hint and bent to kiss her. 

                "See, what did I say? I knew you wouldn't be needing her today." 

                Jude broke away from Rhys instantly to see whom she had to thank for the ill-timed interruption. The shaggy blonde hair and John Lennon wannabe glasses—it could be only one person. Lex was standing in front of his good friend wearing a big grin. He knew when he wasn't wanted, but that didn't mean he would make himself scarce. 

                "Perfect timing, as usual, Lex." Jude didn't feel like being cordial today.

                "And lovely to see you again, too, Jude." He huffed indignantly. She suspected that Lex had always resented her for monopolizing his best friend's time in the past, and now feared it happening all over again. Still, he was a good guy and fun to be around and Jude didn't blame him for any ill feeling between them. After all, her social skills did leave a little to be desired. 

                She was overjoyed, however, to see Darcy straining at the lead wrapped around Lex's wrist, trying to get to her. Squatting down in front of the dog, she allowed Darcy to vent her affection by licking her all over her face and neck. 

                "Any luck, Lex?" Rhys inquired, stroking his dog's ears. 

                "Well, one gal said 'when the Prime Minister flashes the Queen,' so I think there's still a chance there." 

                Jude couldn't help but laugh at that one. "Just get back up on the bike and try again, mate," she encouraged. She looked up from the dog to Lex. She noticed that his attention was no longer held by Rhys and herself. A leggy blonde at a nearby tent had stolen it away. 

                "You know, that sounds like great advice, doll. Catch you two later." He moved as if mesmerized over to where the woman stood. "C'mon, Darcy. You're not off the hook yet."

                "Poor girl," Rhys muttered, his eyes following his dog.

                "Which one?" Jude questioned with raised eyebrows.

                "Both."

***

                "Now, what did you need to tell me?" Rhys' question startled her into reality. She'd almost forgotten her promise to tell him everything when that time came. Well, it was here and she was so wrapped up in Rhys that it almost blindsided her. They strolled along the sidewalk next to the busy avenue skirting the Commons. He brought her fingers that remained entwined in his up to his lips and fixed his eyes on hers. 

                "I…well, I don't really know where to start." She fidgeted a little under his piercing stare, unsure really of how to start. She knew this would be hard, but the reality of it all was much worse than what she simply imagined. 

                "Well, Love, you could start by telling me where these scars came from." A pause was all the response he got. She tried to find the words but they all seemed to fail her. He prompted her further. "Jude, just tell me what happened last year."

                She sighed. Here goes nothing. "A boy started school last year at Hogwarts. Harry Potter."

                "Is that the same kid who…"

                "Yes." Rhys looked a little stunned and confused. She tried to explain further. "The same kid that was responsible for defeating Voldemort. Well, the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, the same Headmaster I had, asked me to come back and work as his personal assistant." 

                Rhys nodded his head, listening patiently. Jude knew that he understood little of this but was kind enough to let her explain in her own time without interruption. 

                "You see, that night when Voldemort attacked the Potters, he wasn't really killed. He was still alive, sort of, but with diminished powers." She hoped she didn't sound like a complete quack. "He'd been tracked to Eastern Europe, but never caught. Then, last summer, there was news of attempts to steal the Sorcerer's Stone." At a quizzical glance from Rhys, Jude felt compelled to clarify. "The Stone is the only sure-fire way I can think of to gain immortality. It seems as if the Dark Lord had the same idea." 

                "I don't understand, Jude," Rhys interrupted for the first time. "What does any of this have to do with you?" Jude was touched by the tone of concern in his voice, but pressed on, determined not to let anything sway her decision to explain this all to him.

                "Well, the Headmaster thought it would be best if the Stone was placed under his protection at the school. But," she pressed onward. "Harry would be there come September, conveniently placing both objectives in one spot. Dumbledore wanted me there to keep an eye on the kid and make sure he stayed out of harm's way."

                "But that's pretty dangerous, don't you think?" Rhys stopped his pacing and faced her. "Only a wacko wouldn't see how easy that makes it for the murdering bastard." 

                Jude frowned a little at the unintended disrespect of the man she looked up to. "The Ministry pressed him into it. They were eager to make a capture and were not above using the boy to sweeten the deal for Voldemort. It was all a plot." Rhys was listening intently to her words. She knew what he wanted her to say. "We didn't catch Him, Rhys." She saw the disappointment flicker across his face. 

                After a short pause, Rhys looked back into her eyes. "And the scars?" 

                She let her eyes fall to her shoes as they toed the concrete beneath her feet. "I…tried to stop Him. But…well, I was thrown through a mirror." God, that was embarrassing to admit. If it hadn't been for her, Voldemort might have been caught or killed or…

                Astonishment was written all over Rhys' face. "You what? Jude, Love, you could have been killed. Why in the world would someone ask that of a person? And why on earth would you agree?" He was shouting as if this were all too ridiculous to fathom, waving his arms around and drawing lots of attention. 

                Jude grabbed his hands and pinned them to his side. It wasn't long before he realized he was making a scene and calmed down. "That's what I've wanted to talk to you about." She bit her lip anxiously. This was it. Now or never. 

                Rhys was a rapt audience. He raised her chin to bring her gaze level to his. He could tell this was hard for her, but he had to know. He had to know how all of this was connected to what she hadn't been able to tell him about her past and what she was no longer willing to hide. 

                "This has to do with your past somehow?" 

                Jude nodded. Her breath was coming in heaving gasps now, and as she tried to calm down all she could think was that she was going to do what she had been afraid to do for five years. 

                She gulped down one last breath. "I told you I was abandoned at a young age, right?" She couldn't remember how much she'd told him about her past and how many lies she'd told him along with the truth. 

                She was relieved when he nodded. "And that you ran away from an orphanage at the age of six. But what does…"

                "I'm getting there," she whispered. She felt guilty for dragging this out, inevitably making it harder for both of them. But it was difficult to gather the courage that she never believed she possessed. Another deep breath. "I ran away to London. Lived on the streets for…oh, I can't even remember now. Well, it's not important." Stop jabbering, she told herself. "Anyway, I met someone there. Someone who promised me that He could help me find out who I was, who my family was." Her eyes alone betrayed the alarm she was feeling as she watched him process the information she'd given him. He was clever, she knew this all too well. They were both clever, too much alike really, to make a likely pair. 

                His eyes bored into her. She could barely hold his stare. "Voldemort. That's who you met up with in London." 

                She couldn't discern if his tone was really accusing or if it was all in her mind. She nodded. Her small frame was shaking uncontrollably and she prayed that he couldn't see her trembling. Her pride would not allow her to appear weak, even in front of him. "He used me, made me believe that He could offer me everything I wanted—answers to all of my questions. I was only seven, for Christ's sake." It sounded like an excuse. The thought made her sick. She wasn't trying to excuse what she'd done, what she'd allowed herself to become. "I'm not trying to make excuses, Rhys. I know it was all my choice…but…"

                "So you're…" He backed a step away from her. A gesture that told her that, despite all of his protests that there was nothing she could say to push him away, there was still one thing. Only one thing that he could never forgive. One thing that she would never say. But she had said it. 

                His chest was heaving now, along with hers. His eyes begged her to deny it. But she couldn't. "You're a…" he tried again, but his words failed him. 

                All she could do was nod. She didn't trust herself to speak.

                After a pause, he managed to choke out the words "Do you have the…" 

                Another nod. 

                 Rhys looked horrified as she rolled up the long sleeve of her shirt and unclasped the wide silver band that encircled her wrist. It was there. The black mark that branded her for life. It was hideous, like the mark that he'd seen in the newspaper article about his parents' deaths. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The mark of the man who'd murdered his family marred the arm of the girl he loved. 

                "You're one of them," he choked out, his shoulders shaking under dry sobs. 

                "No!" She shook her head, willing him to believe her. Her arm dropped to her side, her eyes flew wide open. She had to convince him that she was not that same angry little girl. "Not anymore. That's not who I am…I'm not sure it ever was." 

                He wanted to believe her. In fact, the deep and jagged scar that ran the length of her arm, wrist to elbow, was clearer proof than anything she could say. A scar like that came from a wound that was self inflicted, bisecting her forearm most thickly across the mark. There was no doubt she regretted everything she had once allied herself with. But he couldn't help looking at her as if this was the first time he'd ever seen her—she was a different person. This wasn't the Jude he knew, not the same girl he loved. "You knew…about my parents…and you never said anything! Not a word. You pretended like it never happened…like it didn't matter." Nothing was making sense to him, not even his own words. 

                She tried desperately to keep her chin from quivering. There was no way she was going to cry, not now. She was tough. But could she bear to see him walk away from her? She didn't know. "I didn't want to lose you!" She pleaded as he turned his back to her. What could she do or say to make him stop? But she was relieved and surprised when he did stop and slowly turn to face her.

                "Were you there?" His shoulders slumped, and his chin fell to his chest. Whatever he was expecting, this was not it—this was a nightmare.

                "No." Her reply was adamant, begging him to believe her. Maybe he would forgive her.

                He raised his head to look at her as she stood, defeated in spirit and desperate for any sign from him. He tried to soften his expression, he knew he still loved her—if he didn't, this wouldn't hurt so much. But his eyes only managed a cold and stern look, his jaw set and tense. "Did you murder anyone, Jude?" 

Watching her head bow to her chest, shoulders slumping in guilt was enough. He didn't even need to hear the whispered confirmation from Jude's lips. She had killed. 

                He nodded and spun on his heels. He needed to get away, to put distance between them. As he reached the curb, he heard her call his name. The sound was heart-rending. Successfully blinking back a tear, he turned to see her standing where he'd left her. Her head was cocked to one side, like a confused puppy, not knowing what to do next. Tears, too, streaked her face. It alarmed Rhys a little to see her like that. He'd never, in all of the five years that he'd known her, seen her cry. He wanted to run back to her and scoop her up in his arms and tell her that everything would be fine. But he wasn't sure things would ever be fine again. He needed to think.

 Still staring at her, despair and disbelief written all over her face, he let his foot slide off the curb and onto the street. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he forced himself to turn his face away from her—everything he'd ever wanted. The static of confused thoughts in his head was enough to drown out the screech of brakes grinding and rubber squealing against the asphalt. 

"Rhys!" He heard Jude scream and wanted to turn to find out why she called to him, but everything happened so fast. Yet oddly enough, it seemed as everything was simultaneously happening in slow motion. He felt the pavement bite into his cheek and then…black.


	17. Paradise Lost

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. 

Chapter Seventeen: Paradise Lost

'For now the thought both of lost happiness and lasting pain torments him' John Milton, Paradise Lost, Lines 54-56 

                "No!" Jude heard herself yell, but as if she was observing the scene from very far away. She watched, disassociated from everything, and she saw Lex, with Darcy by his side, sprint from a nearby point to his friend's side. She watched as Lex cradled Rhys' head in his lap and called frantically for help. Crowds began to gather around the pair, as two large men did their best to restrain the frantic driver. Jude looked up at the woman they were barely able to hang onto. She was blonde and very young—eighteen, Jude guessed.

                After a few more moments of aloof observation, something snapped in Jude's mind. She should be there by Rhys' side as he lay on the ground, probably in pain…probably…

                "Oh, God," she whispered hoarsely as she slammed back into reality. Pulling her feet from where they seemed planted, she raced over to the street and pushed through the crowd. Kneeling by him, she took his hand. "Rhys, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Dry sobs rocked her small body. Someone placed a hand on her shoulder—Lex, probably, she reasoned. But she neither saw nor heard anything after that except Rhys lying silently on the ground at her knees.

                Flashing lights. People backing away from them. A man speaking to her and another bending over Rhys. Hands seized her around the arms and lifted her to her feet. She could not look at the person who had a vice grip around her arms and was shaking her. Her eyes were glued to Rhys as they placed him on a stretcher and then hoisted him into the back of an ambulance. The sound of the doors of the rig slamming closed behind her jolted her senses. She heard everything now—the high-pitched scream of the sirens, people bustling and shouting around them, Darcy whining at her side, Lex shaking her, willing her to listen to him. 

                She turned to face him finally. "I'm never going to see him again," she thought.

                "Sure you will, doll." She was surprised at this, not aware that she'd spoken aloud. "But we have to go now, Jude." 

                She allowed an officer to usher her into the back seat of a police cruiser. Lex handed Darcy's lead to a friend standing nearby. "Marcus?" Jude wondered, numbly as Lex hopped in next to her and the car sped off, trailing the ambulance. 

***

                It all felt like an odd sort of dream. Everyone moved in slow motion. All sounds seemed like nothing more than faint echoes. Her limbs felt heavy, like trying to move under water. It took all her concentration just to force herself to breath. Her eyes forgot to blink. So she sat in the waiting room of the hospital, Lex in the cheap, plastic chair next to her. Not blinking, not moving, not hearing anything that was said to her, she just sat there, numb and waiting. 

                An eternity passed in a little under three hours. At the end of that eternity, a man dressed in white holding a clipboard, sat down and bowed his head. She knew what this meant. Enough movies showed doctors delivering bad news in this exact manner. Was there a manual for how to act when you tell someone that the only person they ever loved is dead?

                The man had apparently spoken to her, but she was deaf to his voice, for in the next instance, Lex placed a hand on her shoulder and gently shook her.

                "Jude, do you want to see him?" _Did she want to see him?_ Hadn't she already done enough? "Jude?" Lex was trying to get her attention. 

                "I can't…" she managed to choke out before burying her face in her hands. 

                The doctor and Lex exchanged a few hushed words, so that she would not hear. 

                But the words were lost on her anyway. She didn't hear a single syllable, but she knew all the same. Rhys was never coming back to her. The doctor and Lex rose to talk privately, leaving Jude in the horrible plastic chairs alone. 

                This was her fault. This is what the truth gets you. Or maybe just the truth from her lips. She killed him, and he died hating her. 

                "Jude," Lex was now kneeling in front of her. "I told Marcus to drop Darcy off at Adda's. Do you want me to take you there?" Her cold hands were wrapped in his warm grasp. 

                "No." Her voice was strange and flat and dispassionate to her ears. 

                "You can't stay here, doll. C'mon, let's go." 

                "No!" She wrenched her hands away from him and side stepped him, heading for the automatic doors. She knew he was just as much at a loss as she was and that he was trying to help, but she couldn't help being angry at him, at everyone. "Leave me alone." She spun toward the door, breaking any grasp he had on her, and stormed out. 

                "Where are you going?" He called after her, but she had disappeared into the night.

                Only the howl of the wind from an oncoming storm greeted his ears. Nothing more. She was gone…where, only God knows. But the self-destructive behavior she displayed alarmed him. Who knows what she would do next. But far be it for him to stop her. 

                "Mr. Innes?" 

                Lex turned back to the doctor. "Yeah?" He hung his head. The day had been so perfect. Who would have guessed that at the end of it, he would be arranging things alone after his best friend had died? 

                "You said he had no family?"

                "Not that I am aware of. His parents died when he was young and his grandfather raised him—he's dead now, too. But, I think he'd already arranged to be buried with them all on their estate outside of Cardiff. I could call around for you, if you want." This is so morbid, Lex thought as he finished. How is it possible that I can calmly discuss burying a friend with a complete stranger?

                "And the charges?" 

                "Against the girl?" 

                The doctor nodded. 

                Lex sighed heavily and looked toward the automatic glass doors that Jude had only moments ago disappeared through. She should be here, she should be doing this. 

                "If there is no one to press charges…" the doctor started.

                Lex's eyes darted back to the doctor, who froze under his frigid and determined glare. "I will. Did the tests come back?" 

                Again the doctor nodded. 

                "She was…?" 

                "Intoxicated? Yes."

                He hung his head again and sighed deeply. "How long can you…" he swallowed hard. "How long can you keep him here?" 

                The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "We'll worry about that later." 

                Lex let his shoulders drop. He was exhausted. 

                "Would you like to see him?" 

                Lex nodded wearily.

                The doctor led him down a corridor where he pushed open a pair of steel swinging doors. Rhys lie on a gurney in the middle of a sterile room bathed in harsh white lights. Lex walked up to his friend, noting how unreal everything felt. Rhys looked only as if he were asleep. The deep gash on his head and bruised cheek could have been merely war wounds from a particularly nasty game of rugby. But he knew it was all an illusion his heart was presenting him. He knew intellectually that his friend would never wake up, but he didn't want to believe it.  

                Taking a cold hand in his, the harsh reality could not be ignored. All make-believe was over—the world was cold and cruel and unforgiving. Even for good people like Rhys. 

                Lex looked into the sleeping face. "Goodnight, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." 

***

                The wind blew fiercely as the thunder cracked and lightning lit the sky in a white-purple glow for only moments at a time. She couldn't guess how long she'd been wandering down every street her feet led her. The bells had tolled from nearby towers announcing the hour a couple of times, but Jude had paid them no mind. 

                Exhaustion was the least from her mind as her feet simply continued to carry her in an aimless path around town. Once, she'd found herself on a street, staring across at the Commons, where, in only a few short minutes, she'd lost everything she'd ever held dear. 

                Her body was numb. If it weren't, she was sure she could produce tears enough to drown herself in. But crying was not something that came naturally to her. When she fell as a child, tears and sobs brought no aid to her, only harsh rebukes from Mrs. Bertram. And by the time she'd run away, she'd realized the value of hiding what she felt. Emotion was weakness that exposed a person to pain. 

                Why had she not held more firmly to that maxim? She could have saved herself all of this. But it was too late to change anything, and regret didn't fix things. 

                She passed a storefront with the lights still blazing inside. Stepping through the door, she realized why this establishment remained open so late into the night. It was a liquor store. 

                Staring at the long lines of bottles on the shelves, she quickly grabbed a clear one filled with equally clear liquid. If she couldn't drown in tears, she'd drown in Absolut.

                The bottle produced a satisfying thunk as it hit the wood of the counter. "And a pack of cigarettes." Rough patches always seemed a bit more bearable with tobacco and a million other poisons in her system. 

                Her head felt heavy and she let it bow a little as she fished a few notes from her pocket. "Rough night?" An old, balding man with a huge barrel chest and a leather biker vest pulled tightly across it grunted at her. 

                Without picking up her head, her eyes darted up to meet his. Her cold stare was enough to silence him. "Keep the change," she spat as she threw the notes onto the counter and grabbed the bottle and cigs and made for the door. 

                She wasn't very far down the street, when large drops began to fall from the heavens. "Oh, perfect," she muttered through a cigarette perched between her lips. It was raining—and she'd forgotten to pick up a lighter or matches. It had been years since she'd quit smoking. When had she even started? It must have been a little after the start of fifth year, she mused, but her fuzzy head kept any thoughts from hanging around too long. Thank God for vodka.

                 She snapped her fingers and the cigarette began to glow softly in the darkness. A pinpoint of orange in a sea of black and indigo. The blue smoke rose as the rain fell down. A quarter of the bottle already gone, but the pain held on. She was no lightweight when it came to drinking—she'd even beat Rhys at a drinking game involving coins and an empty paper cup and little to no rules. What was her advantage then was her vice now. She wanted to slip over the edge of oblivion soon, but with every drink, the pain only grew more acute. A little more. A little more and she'd be gone, she hoped.

                Half a bottle and the thoughts only grew more intense. Pain and sadness was only changed into rage with every drink, instead of sputtering and dying under the alcohol as it should. The rain would not abate. It beat down on her shoulders and the pavement. The bitter taste of vodka had long ago lost its sting, but the relentless raindrops were still punishing enough. 

                Only a few drinks left. The taste had gone from smooth to…nothing at all. A whole bottle and not a thought lost. The pain still clung to her, wrenching the heart she'd been trained to ignore. Looking up as the rain continued to fall in ruthless sheets all around her, she noticed that she had stopped beneath the shadow of a hulking stone structure. The lines of the arches, the masonry of the spire. This was a cathedral. A house of God. 

                Trembling from head to foot, she continued to stare at the building. Erected to house a relic, as were all cathedrals, with the purpose of drawing in pilgrims, these structures were the original tourist attraction. She wracked her brain to think of what this particular cathedral housed, but she couldn't even think of the name of the building. She wasn't even sure she knew where she was anymore. 

                Relics. A piece of a deceased saint imbued with healing powers. People supposedly journeyed for hundreds of miles to a place like this with hopes of being healed. She doubted her shattered world could easily be repaired by touching a finger bone that was rumored to make miracles happen. Nothing could bring Rhys back. 

                A sound of something shattering close to her broke her stare. Glancing down at her feet, she noticed that a glass bottle lay in crystalline shards on the sidewalk. The bottle must have slipped from her wet fingers. Oh, well. There were only a few drops left anyway. She lit another cigarette. Only one more left.

                The door was open leading into the grand building. The warm glow of thousands of lighted candles beckoned her towards it. Jude refused to move, to give into the urge to seek sanctuary from the driving rain. The gothic arches of the doors and windows pointed to heaven, prompting all beholders' thoughts to do the same. 

                The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange as she took another long drag and blew the smoke skyward—the only offering she would give. "Boy, you have everyone fooled don't you?" she said icily. "The biggest scam ever—'all things happen for a reason' and 'it is God's will'—you have one for everything. But the truth is you are just as vengeful as the next sinner, maybe even worse." She threw the smoldering remains of her cigarette onto the sidewalk and marched up to the stone steps. She wasn't going to let the arches and carvings intimidate her any longer. No one would push her around anymore, not Fate, not God, or whatever else one chose to call it. It was all the same lie to her. 


	18. Deaf Ears

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from the creation of this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Eighteen: Deaf Ears

'How she wishes it was different 

_She prays to God most every night_

And though she swears he doesn't listen 

_There's still a hope in her he might._

_She says, "I pray, oh but they fall on deaf ears._

_Am I supposed to take it on myself to get out of this place?"_

_Oh, there's a loneliness inside her_

_And she'd do anything to fill it in_

_And though it's red blood bleeding from her now_

_It feels like cold blue ice in her heart_

_When all the colors mix together—to grey.'___

_Dave Matthews Band, __Grey Street___

                "I don't understand," the Minister said, frowning at the pair of dark-suited men standing in front of his desk. "You say you saw her kill a man, but yet, you believe she had nothing to do with the Chamber fiasco at Hogwarts?"

                One of the men shifted his weight from foot to foot as he chose the words to say. "We didn't say she actually killed a man, sir. Responsible in some way, yes, but we didn't exactly see her physically harm him." Both men stood with their hands clasped in front of them with their feet spread evenly apart as if awaiting further instruction from a superior officer. 

                "Tell me again what you saw, Kelley." The Minister's eyes flicked agitatedly from the man who'd just spoken, to the man standing at his side. 

                "Well, as I said, this was the first real incident since we've been assigned this detail and…"

                "I don't care about that! Just tell me what happened tonight!" The Minister was seething with anger.

                "Well, there was an argument it looked like. The man was upset by something she said and turned to cross the street when he was run down by a passing car." The man named Kelley returned to the same position as his partner. "An Auto-mobile."

                "You see, Minister. She probably didn't intend to kill this guy, but she was involved some how. I don't think she wanted any of this to happen. I mean, she looked pretty upset…"

                The Minister looked up from his desk. The man was silent in an instant. "And you two didn't bring her in for questioning?" 

                "Well, the Muggles were on the scene before we could act and…" 

                "I've sent others to find her. Hopefully, they won't fail." The Minister passed a hand wearily over his eyes. He began muttering as if he were the only person in the room. "I know she was involved in what happened there with the Chamber. But how?"

                The second man stepped forward again, offering his opinion without the Minister's address. "Sir, I don't think she was involved." He fished a worn notebook from his pocket and flipped through a few sheets of parchment. "She was attending school at Cambridge and has now finished that. She wasn't really involved in anything else there but…"

                "Quiet, you fool. I didn't think one with your qualifications could be duped so easily. She's cunning and tricky. This isn't the first time she's pulled the wool over our eyes." The Minister was now on his feet and pacing the wide floor of his spacious office. 

                The sound of the door being flung violently open was the only thing that stilled his steps and caused his gaze to jerk upward from the carpet. The two darkly clothed men started slightly at the interruption and turned to face the door. 

                "I beg your pardon, sir, but…she's gone." The man twisted his hands together in agitation, obviously not thrilled to give the Minister such news.

                "Gone? What do you mean, gone?" 

                "Well, sir, Jacobs and Hawthorne said they saw her go into a cathedral located in the town late at night, and when she finally came out in the morning, she'd disappeared." The messenger continued to wring his hands nervously.

                "You mean, she Apparated?" the Minister clarified. His face turned from angry agitation to a satisfied grin. "This may be what I have been waiting for." One of the cardinal rules the Ministry set forth governing Jude was the ban on certain usages of magic, such as Apparating—it gave far too much freedom of movement to someone the Ministry was trying to keep a close eye on. The consequences she faced for such a breech could be serious. This was the opportunity that he'd been waiting for and if it was impossible to trace the latest shenanigans at Hogwarts back to her, then this was just as good. 

***

                The warm glow of a dozen or so blazing candles beckoned her in from the rain-soaked streets, but everything within her told her to stay away—she did not belong here. Her clothes hung heavy on her, dripping, and left a huge puddle where she was standing, transfixed by the enormity of the lofty ceiling rising above her head. Normally, she would have been ashamed to leave such a mess in any place, let alone on the perfectly polished marble floor of a great cathedral, but for the life of her she just could not muster that proper feeling of remorse right now. 

                She stood with one hand wrapped around her waist with her other elbow resting on the hand at her hip, her fingers carelessly guiding the last cigarette to her lips, staring shrewdly around at the place where she now found herself. Dripping and sending ashes to the pristine tiles only aided in marking her more alien to the magnificence that surrounded her. 

                Smirking sardonically as she sent up a small cloud of blue smoke, she wondered if all this grandeur actually convinced people that there really was a God who cared about the struggles and strife of every individual. Did it make people feel better to invent a pleasant fiction where there is actually a merciful and caring spirit looking out for them instead of just cruel twists of fate guided by absolutely nothing at all? The truth of the matter, Jude mused, was that people fear being alone, not understanding that things just happen…for no reason. It's not some part of a great plan. There is no plan. 

                Jude liked this line of reasoning, the blame for everything that went wrong in her life wasn't part of some master plan, some sick, twisted, "it's all for the best" bullshit people felt inclined to believe. It was just chance. If there was a God behind all of it, as people said, why didn't he ever show his face? If there was a God, why did he stay silent all those years she continued to pray? Reflexes, habit—she had many names to call it. Still, she continued to pray, even when everything inside her told her no one was listening. Every night, before she could drift into uneasy rest, she repeated the words she'd been taught as a little girl: "Our Father, who art in Heaven…" And she would add her own, hoping that there really was someone there to hear. 

                But did anyone ever answer her? Did anyone intercede on her behalf when her life was consumed with darkness? She clenched her teeth as the anger seethed beneath her skin. People weren't stupid—they knew there was someone there, why would they pray otherwise? No, she liked the idea that this was all a grand illusion because it hid the fact that she was the only one that was duped. God was there and he did answer people, just not her. He ignored her. And the truth was that she would rather believe that people were deluding themselves, and not that she was being forsaken. 

                She wandered through the aisles, up to the altar, where penitents daily came to ask forgiveness. She let her hand glide over the soft velvet covering the railings, her eyes glued to the marble Madonna, holding her holy child and looking on with measured indifference. A furniture tack bit deeply into the palm of her hand, pulling her attention momentarily from the icon, as a trickle of crimson blood flowed freely. She watched as a red drop fell from her skin to the creamy white stone of the floor. Is that what He wanted from her? Her blood? Well, there were a thousand opportunities to take it, but still He saw fit to drag out her miserable existence.

                With a sardonic, cold laugh, she flung her arms wide and raised her face to the ceiling. Her bloodied palm turned up to Heaven and her cigarette perched between the fingers of her other hand, she continued to laugh, hollow and mirthless. 

                "You can't ignore me now, can You?" She spun wildly in a circle as she shouted at the rafters, hands still stretched out at her sides. "You can't turn away from me when I'm right in Your face."

                Letting her hands fall at her sides, she continued loudly. "Now that I have Your attention, I have a few questions to ask that You never answered." Another long drag on her cigarette and she began, "So, why do You create a person for a life of misery? I know this girl, You see, a friend. She was orphaned by a woman who simply didn't want her, because she was different, ugly, stupid, useless—who knows why." She paced in front of the altar like a wild animal in a cage as she continued her tale. "Well, she was left with a woman who told her she was evil and didn't belong, so the little girl ran away to find where she did belong. She prayed that God would help her find that place. Instead," Jude stopped and glared up into the face of the statue in front of her and raised a finger at the image, "You let her become a thief and a murderer." 

                The hand holding the cigarette flew to her mouth only briefly before she continued on. "However, the girl didn't blame You for that. She figured she'd made the wrong choices. So, she tried to fix things. But that's not easily said nor done. People hated her everywhere she went for the next ten years, and when she finally finds someone to love and to love her in return, You take him away." She spat the last words angrily at the serene statue, her voice echoing off of every polished surface of the enormous church. "She'd prayed for happiness, just a little, and when it finally seemed as if You'd given a damn, You ripped the rug right out from under her. So," she continued to rail against the statue loudly, "my question is: _Why? _Is this person some experiment in how much misery a human can take? Is it entertainment? Or is it just plain, fucking bad luck for her? Because the way I used to see it, it was just chance—a really shitty draw of the cards. But now, I think You like to watch me suffer."

                "You mean your friend."

                Jude jumped at the sound of another voice in the room. The statue, cold, inanimate, stone, could not have possibly…

                No, Jude dismissed that idea with a shake of her head. It couldn't have been the statue of Mary—it was after all, only a statue. And, besides, the voice she'd heard was male. 

                She spun on her heals to see an old man sitting two rows behind her. From the white collar around his neck, she realized he was a priest. Great.

                "Huh?" she questioned inarticulately. He'd said something, but it had given her quite a start that all remembrances of what was said had been put out of her head. 

                "You said 'God liked to watch you suffer,' but what you meant to say was 'your friend,' not 'you.'" The old man rose from his seat and ambled over, a bit laboriously, to stand in front of Jude.

                "Well, who cares what I said, old man. I wasn't talking to you anyway," she muttered through another puff on her cigarette as she brushed past him, heading for the door. He was going to kick her out anyway, so best to beat him to the punch. 

                "He doesn't like to see anyone suffer," he called to her retreating figure. 

                She didn't turn, but stopped to call over her shoulder, "Sure as hell could have fooled me." She continued to move to the great doors where she could still hear the rain pounding down outside.

                "You suffer because you choose to suffer. We all make choices, but only the cowards blame the consequences of that choice on God."

                She spun quickly around, fighting the vertigo in her head. This was the last straw. "_I'm_ a coward? You're the one who lives locked away in an enormous stone sarcophagus, praying to a God who doesn't listen, hoping that it will give your life some meaning. You don't know what I've been through—everything, every fucking horrible thing in my life—and I can assure you there have been plenty—I have faced them alone. And you think I enjoy suffering? That I choose this? No, but I had to get used to it." She turned again toward the door, angry clouds of smoke rising from the cigarette clenched between her lips.

                "I can guess what you've been through, child," the feeble old voice pursued her. Despite her inclinations and her better judgment, she stopped but kept her back to the priest. "Your mother left you at an orphanage. You had no family and when you ran away, you were taken in by someone who said they could give you a family, but they only used you. They taught you to do terrible things to others, but somewhere down the line, you decided that you couldn't handle it. You left, and after a while you find yourself angry, alone and shouting at God for ignoring you." The priest saw her shake her head incredulously. 

He'd merely repeated the story she'd told the statue, but he thought he had her pegged. And he wanted her to believe he had some pearls of wisdom to impart to her. It wasn't even a good bluff—hell it wasn't even a poor bluff, but absolute rubbish. Nothing was going to stop her from walking through those doors and away from this hack that was wasting her time. 

"But let me ask some questions now, child," he called to her as she continued to retreat, not looking back. "Why do you think you felt so bad when you did those horrible things, theft and murder?"

She stopped cold. He had heard that? Jude willed her nerves to calm down. She slowly turned to give the priest the audience he desired. She guessed after her railings, she could at least listen to his parley. She owed him that, and he had enough on her to have her arrested. So she listened. 

Her silence was taken as permission to proceed. "God was there, with you all the time, telling you it was wrong." He laced his fingers superiorly in front of him as he made his point clear. 

Her sardonic smile returned. "Call it what you like, Father. But almost every child has a sense of right and wrong, even poor little urchins. It may be a little skewed, but it's still there. It's a little strong, though, to call that God."

He nodded a defeat to her on that point and tried a new course. "When you finally gave up your life of murder, you found friends, shelter, support you'd never had before that?"

Her gaze remained steadily fixed on the old man's twinkling eyes, but her ironic smile faltered. He was right. She had been able to leave that life behind only because of the few people she'd found to care for her. "I had a few friends," she finally admitted after a long pause and another slow drag at the cigarette. "But," she added, noting the look of triumph on the priest's face, "my enemies far outweigh allies. My life was still as difficult as it was before that." She would not concede this point, either. The priest would have to explore another circuit.

"You have spoken of many trials in your life that you have faced on your own, alone as you said." The priest paused to put his thoughts into order. "Were any of these tribulations deadly?" 

She nodded. "Several." 

"Well, in any of those times did you feel you shouldn't have made it out of some of those scrapes alive?" The old man looked up at her with a smile, eyes twinkling. It was, Jude thought, the exact look Dumbledore had when he announced 'checkmate.' But she wasn't about to give in this easily.

"So you expect me to believe that just because I should have died five times by now, I should believe that someone is watching out for me?" She waved her hands, gesturing at the immense building around her. "Well, if I concede that to you, Father, that someone is watching, how can I assume that He is looking out for me and not just laughing at me as I jump through some miserable hoops for His entertainment?" 

The priest smiled kindly and walked to where she was standing. Fighting the urge to retreat, she let the old man take her bleeding hand in his. "Because, He doesn't want any of His children to suffer, child. We have to believe that He wants more for us all. That's faith."

"Well, if that's true, why did He let Rhys die instead of me? He doesn't want anyone to suffer? Why? Why do we have to assume anything? If He doesn't want me to suffer, then why didn't He just let me die? He had plenty of opportunities." She snatched her hand from the priest's grasp and narrowed her eyes accusingly at him. 

"Because, I believe He still has plans for you. All of this is but preparation for something. You have a big task ahead of you, I can tell." 

She laughed mirthlessly. "Do they teach you exactly what to say for every situation? A girl walks in who thinks she has no purpose but to be some living joke, a big fucking gag, and you tell her she has a purpose?" She took another long puff from the dwindling cigarette. "Well, I'm sure you have better things to do, Father. I'll stop wasting your time." She turned to leave.

"I'll pray for you child." The priest clasped his hands in front of him and watched her leave.

"Don't bother," she muttered, tossing the spent cigarette on the floor of the austere building and crunched it under her foot. "He doesn't hear anyway." She passed under the huge arch of the doors and out into the relentless rain. 

***

Through the sheets of heavy rain, she saw them, not even twenty feet from where she stood. They'd probably been watching her since she'd left Hogwarts. How could she have forgotten them—she was still public enemy number two. These two, however, were not trying to hide their presence, blatantly dressed in the signature dark suits of the Department of the Mysteries and brazenly standing under a street lamp. They wanted to make their presence known. 

Well, if they wanted to take her in for questioning, as she suspected, they'd have to jump through some hoops first. She wasn't going to give in so easily. Standing on one of the top steps of the church, facing the two men, she smiled wryly before disappearing. 

The two men started then swore before Apparating back to the Ministry to report the flight of their prey.

***

Thankfully, it was very late at night. The streets were empty and so was the little bakery in which she materialized with a pop. Well, almost empty. 

A black and tan hound wagged her tail fiercely at the intruder. "'Lo, Darcy." She stroked the dog's ears. It was strange, unnatural and painful to see this dog without Rhys somewhere nearby. "I can't stay, girl. I just came to grab some things." The dog whined her disapproval as Jude headed for the door to her room. She came back with a suitcase in hand to see the dog, leash in her mouth, wagging her tail and blocking the door. Jude shook her head, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil from the counter. She wasn't really aware of what she was writing, not even a fitting goodbye for someone who'd been as kind to her as Adda had been. She left the note on the counter with some cash to cover the rest of her rent. There was no way she could stay here, not after what had happened. Dead memories—ghosts of what could have been, lay thicker than flour over every surface of the quaint bakery she'd called her home.

Turning to the door, she placated the whining Darcy. "I can't take you with me, girl. I don't even know where I'm going yet." But the dog would not budge. Finally, Jude relented and hooked her lead to her collar. It was true that Jude had always been fonder of the dog than Adda and the old woman didn't really need the hassle right now. But it was also a desire of Jude's to keep something that was close to Rhys as close to her as she could. She opened the door and let the dog through before following her out. Silently shutting the door behind her, she used magic to lock it.

When she turned back to the street, she realized she was not alone. 

"That was quick. You boys have done your homework." Jude cast a cold stare on the same two black clad figures.

"You're going to have to come with us, Miss. We have a few questions for you. Just keep your hands where we can see them."

Jude rolled her eyes and stepped away from the door. "Look, I'm not going to try anything. I'll come, you can ask your stupid questions, but the dog comes too."

"Fair enough." The man who'd spoken pulled what looked like a jewelry box from his coat. His partner motioned for her to join them. "Catch." The man tossed the contents of the box at her and she caught the small silver sphere deftly with her spare hand. A Portkey.


	19. Veritas Parit Odium

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from the creation of this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Nineteen: Veritas Parit Odium

'Weary 

_My hands slapped cause I'm cautious and leery_

_Of tryin'—oh but I'm tryin'_

_How am I to figure it out_

_All alone I've been kickin' around_

_Without my home—I'm so lost, so lost'_

_Sister Hazel, Fortress_

                "Catch!" Jude looked at the silver ball bearing in her hand and shook her head ruefully. "It's the oldest trick in the book, Darcy. I can't believe I fell for it. I hate Portkeys." But the dog was more interested in her new surroundings. 

                Two pops alerted her to the presence of others following her into the room. It was the two goons from the storefront in Cambridge. She turned to them, tossing the Portkey back to the man who'd given it to her. "Catch. Very clever of you."

                "Thank you." His answer was a bland monotone. He snatched the tiny ball out of the air with little effort.

                "It's two in the morning, boys. Do you mind telling me where I am and why I'm here?" Jude leaned against a deserted desk and folded her arms. She knew exactly where she was. The Ministry of Magic.

                "The Minister has a few questions for you."  

                One of the men pushed a heavy, metal door open. "Follow me." Jude scoffed only minimally at the command as she pushed off the desk to obey. The other darkly clad figure brought up the rear.

                After a few twists and turns down nearly empty corridors they entered a reception area where an overworked secretary slumped over her desk, buried in some last-minute work. The name displayed on the door behind her announced that this was the office of the Minister himself. Jude was surprised that a man with as little talent for public service as Fudge would be burning the midnight oil for any reason whatsoever. What was going on?

                "Minister's expecting us, Rose." The man in the lead rapped his knuckles on the hard wood of her desk, calling her attention up from the notes she was making on a sheet of typed print. 

                "Go on ahead," she said wearily and returned at once to her work without further acknowledgement.

                The door swung open and at once Jude was reminded why she loathed the man sitting behind the desk in front of her. Feet perched on top of the immaculate surface, ankle over ankle, hands propping up his chin, fingers laced together and a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face, the Minister greeted his guest. 

                "Good evening, Miss Elliot. Or should I say good morning." 

                Jude fought the revulsion she felt at the sound of the oily politician's voice as he pretended to consult his watch in a calculated motion to match his words. She bet he'd practiced it all before she got there. 

                "I hear you've had a busy night." His feet swung off the desk and on to the floor, his elbows coming to rest now on the place they had vacated. All cordiality and preliminary politeness was out the window now, Jude sensed. 

                She said nothing, but held the Minister's stare with cold ferocity. She was feeling mutinous and the only thing that kept her from turning around and leaving that instant was Big Boy standing right behind her, blocking her retreat. 

                "Please, Miss Elliot. Have a seat." He motioned her to take the chair directly in front of his desk. She threw herself into it wearily. She was exhausted, but still up for a fight if it came to that. "Thank you, Leon," the Minister said, dismissing the remaining thug with a wave. "Oh, and can you take this dog with you?" The man, following the Minister's orders reached for the lead loosely wound around Jude's wrist. 

                "The dog stays." Her counter was thin and harsh and brooked no refusal. The man consulted the Minister before retreating through the door without the hound. Darcy settled by Jude's chair, resting her head on her paws, watching the scene with mild interest. 

                "I assume you know why you were asked here, Miss Elliot?" 

***

                _"I assume you know why you were asked here, Miss Elliot?"_

_                The Minister was pacing in front of a large window facing a busy __London__ street, the sun slanting through the glass in tangible rays. The man was harsh looking with dark hair that had faded to gray, and black fierce eyes like a prowling cat. From the name on the plate that graced the heavy desk in front of her, she realized that this severe man must be Howard Jennings, Minister of Magic. _

_                She had heard enough of him to be inclined to hate him. Of course, the information had come from Lord Voldemort and numerous other enemies of the Minster and his Ministry. But by the way the man acted and the impression she got from Professor Dumbledore, those inclinations seemed fitting. _

_                Looking up from the side of the Headmaster, she replied hesitantly. "Because, Professor Dumbledore told me I had to come." She wasn't trying to be difficult, but this answer seemed to spark a fire of hatred in the man. _

_                "Don't be daft, child. You know very well what you are and now I have to figure out what to do with you." The Minister continued his angry pacing. _

_                "May I make a suggestion, Minister?" Dumbledore questioned. _

_                "Of course, Albus." The Minister waved an impatient hand._

_                "The child could remain at the school, under my watch…"_

_                The Minister held up a restraining hand. "I'm sorry, Albus, but I cannot allow you to do that. I know you sympathize with the child, but she is just using you. She is one of them, You-Know-Who's right hand. She must not be trusted. And she must be dealt with accordingly." The man cast a scathing glance at the little girl at the Headmaster's side. _

_                Jude fought the impulse to quail under such a harsh, accusing stare, but stuck her chin out and pressed her lips together in resolve instead. She would not be intimidated. Her fingers wound tighter around the folds of the old professor's cloak. She seemed to draw strength from his mere presence. He would never let anything happen to her._

_                "And how would you deal with her, Minister?" The Headmaster's voice betrayed a slightly mocking tone. It was no secret that the two wizards did not agree on most subjects. _

_                "Like the rest of her kind. Life in Azkaban. She'll never see the light of day again as long as I'm Minister." He rounded on her, glaring ferociously like a hungry predator. _

_                "Send a child, only ten years old, to a place like that? Are you out of your mind, Howard?" The Headmaster stepped forward, reluctant to start a conflict with the Minister, but willing to put up a fight for the child. _

_                It was no secret that anyone even loosely tied to Voldemort's band was the archenemy of the Minister's. He'd placed more witches and wizards under the watch of the dreadful Dementors in the infamous wizard prison than any Minister in the Ministry's history—a reputation that Minister Jennings was quite proud of. He'd searched out Death Eaters with unmatched zeal, and now due to the recent downfall of their master, he planned to step up his efforts rooting them from their hiding places. This was a hobby for him but also a lucrative business venture. Those select members of Voldemort's ranks with enough resources to bribe the Minister could buy their way out of his witch hunt, and those with more modest incomes could at least buy themselves a reasonably fair trial. _

_                "Why not? She is a murderer just like the rest of the lot. Why should the Ministry be merciful on the young and not the old? I dare say she is old enough to know right from wrong." His eyes wandered wildly as he pondered the possibility of placing yet another, very influential member of the opposition behind bars. After a few seconds of his erratic and disconcerting thought, he clapped his hands together and walked quickly to the door, pulling it open. Almost gleefully, he asked the secretary to retrieve someone from Magical Law Enforcement. _

_                Dumbledore's wise and suspicious eyes followed his erratic movements along with Jude, who only gaped at the intimidating man with astonishment and apprehension. Would he really put her in prison? She didn't doubt that's where she should be. When people killed other people, they went to prison. _

_                "She is not a murderer and we have nothing to fear from her." Jude remained silent and still by the Headmaster's side. She had never mentioned to anyone that she had actually killed a man for her Master, even though she sensed that Dumbledore suspected such. But now was not the time for confession—she didn't want to go to Azkaban, even though she was sure she deserved no less. "A ten year old child is easily manipulated, Minister. I'm sure Lord Voldemort left her little option in the course her life has taken. And," Dumbledore continued to press her case even when the door opened, admitting two uniformed and intimidating men. "She did save that child, openly betraying her master to do so. She put her life at great risk to save another. And this is how you would repay her for the trouble?" The old professor was hugging the little girl to him as the Minister doled out orders to his lackeys. _

_                One man approached the child and pried her away from the old man. Dumbledore released her reluctantly, but was clearly not ready to give up the fight. Jude struggled fiercely against the steel grasp of the man, but she was only a child and no match for a fully trained Law Enforcement wizard. He had her under control before the Headmaster had gathered his thoughts to argue further. _

_                "Minister Jennings, you will release the child into my custody as a ward of the school. I will not stand by and watch you abuse the power given to you." An angry fire burned behind the cool blue of the professor's eyes. But the Minister was equal to the challenge. _

_                "And you plan to stop me, Albus? I hold all the cards here. You have no power over this situation." The Minister was rubbing his hands together, satisfied as Jude continued to struggle against the two men as they attempted to herd her out the door. _

_                "If you take that child away, I will personally see to it that every citizen of this community knows what you have done." The sly grin on the Minister's face did not betray the slightest hint of fear or acquiescence. The Headmaster, judging his opponent, only smiled. "There are still some at the Daily Prophet that are not in your pocket, Minister. Everyone will know what really happened here, you have my word." He'd seen the Minister's resolve crumble like a child's sandcastle under the power of a wave. He'd hit him where every politician was sensitive—his reputation. _

_                The serene, superior glare of the Headmaster's was matched by the defeated, crestfallen and furious glowering of the Minister. The stare was only broken as a cry of pain shattered the silence. It was not a child's yell, but that of a grown man howling. Dumbledore looked to the man who'd had a vice grip on Jude only moments before. But he'd released his hold on the child when she'd sunken her teeth deep into the flesh of his hand. The man was cradling his wounded hand, no longer heeding the child. She ran across the room and dove into the Headmaster's arms. _

_                Patting the child reassuringly, he spoke to the Minister, hoping to quell the anxiety that the child's freedom created. "You have my word that Jude will be no threat to the wizarding community."_

_                The Minister sank into his plush, leather chair and cradled his head in his hands. Raising his head sharply as the pair moved to leave, the Minister spoke furiously. "There are to be certain rules governing her behavior. Such as…" he furrowed his brow, grasping at the necessary list of regulations. "She is not to perform magic outside the classroom, she must use a wand—none of that sorcery trollop—she may not Apparate, ever. It would give her too much license. And…" The Minister trailed off. After several moments of silence he allowed them to leave, promising to send a full list of rules governing the dangerous child that was considerably longer than the list the Minister was able to compile on his own that night. He must have had help, Jude reasoned._

***

The events of that morning had forever fostered a deep resentment and distrust for the Ministry that was not improved upon over the subsequent years.  And this visit was not adding to the charm the Ministry was devoid of. 

Jude was hard pressed to conjure up any other feelings than intense loathing as she listened to Fudge ramble on about the threat she posed to the community. She fought to hide the anger and rage from showing on her face, keeping her features a cold mask of indifference. 

"But one thing I don't understand," the Minister continued, reclining easily in his chair and frowning in feigned confusion—another practiced expression.

"There's just one? I'd assume most basic concepts are beyond your grasp," Jude scoffed, arching an eyebrow at the pompous man in front of her. She knew she shouldn't push his buttons right now, but he was such an arrogant asshole that she couldn't help letting a few snide comments slide.

He stared coldly back at her, but then quickly regained his composure and pressed on. "Why did you kill that young man in Cambridge? From all the reports I've heard, he was a friend of yours." 

A satisfied look crossed the Minister's face at the sight of Jude's stricken agitation. She fought to remain in control of her rage and anger, but could not help exploding at this accusation. 

"I didn't kill him. I would never hurt him." She stood up, fists clenched, causing Darcy to jump up from her spot at Jude's feet. Barely able to restrain her fury, she took a few deep breaths, intent on explaining to the Minister, calmly and rationally, the events of that evening—even though it was none of his damned business and reliving that again was the last thing she wanted to do right now.

She remained standing. Even though she was exhausted, she could not force herself to sit back down. In a tight, strained tone, she began her explanation reluctantly. "I asked him to meet me there because I had something to tell him." She paused, swallowing hard. 

The Minister took this opportunity to clarify some facts. "His name was Rhys Mallory, son of a Ministry employee who was killed by You-Know-Who's hand. Were you aware of this?"

"Yes," she replied weakly. "He told me not long after we'd met." 

"And yet he was still your friend despite the fact that you were involved with the man responsible for the deaths of his family?" He watched intently as her expression of cold indifference faltered and her gaze sank to rest on the floor. "Ah. I see." The Minister's tone was slightly mocking. "You didn't tell him about your involvement. That you yourself were a murderer of innocent people just like his mother, his father." Perfect. He had her exactly where he wanted her. 

She would have dissolved into tears at this point if she were the type of person who cried. Instead, she stood still, shocked to the very core. Still, she would not let the Minister put his spin on things—she would not concede the battle this easily. "That's what I was going to tell him. That's why I asked him to meet me. I didn't want to hide it from him any longer." Her voice was low but she didn't doubt that the Minister caught every word. 

"Still," he broke the minute's silence. "It is a coincidence that you would befriend a former Ministry employee's son. You claim that you had no ulterior motive for your relationship?" 

Jude furrowed her brow, trying to see where Fudge was going with this, determined to beat him to the punch. But she had no clue what vein he was trying to exploit. 

"You could have easily used the Imperius Curse on him—I dare say you are an expert in the Unforgivable Curses. You could have commanded him to walk blindly into his death."

"No!" Jude could barely choke out the words. This was ludicrous. She would never want to kill the only person in the world who'd mattered to her. No doubt he thought her incapable of such feeling. 

"The only thing I can't reconcile is _why_? Why would you befriend this man and kill him? His connection to us is weak, and there was really no other reason for you to attack him." He folded his hands calculatingly under his chin, fingers laced, giving him the air of deep, judicious thought. "You had a secret motive for killing him and I want to know it, Miss Elliot."

The rage bubbled over and poured out before she had a chance to contain it. She slammed her hands palms down on his desk, creating a loud and satisfying crack. "I didn't kill him, it was an accident. I loved Rhys. I blame myself for making him angry enough to walk out into the street, where he was killed. Yes. I take responsibility for that. But I will not let you create some idiot conspiracy to boost your public opinion. I will not allow you to make a mockery of his death like that." 

The Minister simply stared back at her, eyes unreadable. "Then tell me of your involvement in the events at Hogwarts these past few months and I will forget this latest incident." 

The look of confusion that spread across Jude's face was unmistakable and completely genuine. She had no clue what he was talking about. The Minister saw this, but questioned anyway.

"What was your part in all of this, Miss Elliot?"

She shook her head, completely caught off guard by this question. She didn't know how to answer. Isolating herself from the wizarding world, she'd heard nothing about events concerning it. And nothing to do with Hogwarts. "I don't know…what are you talking about?" She sank back into her seat wearily. 

"Are you familiar with the Chamber of Secrets?" He was glaring suspiciously at her.

"Yes," she replied, brow furrowed. "It's an old myth."

"A myth you say?" the Minister chuckled and shook his head. "Several children were attacked by an unknown entity masquerading as the heir of Slytherin. A very serious hoax that could have been deadly."

"Was anyone hurt?" Jude looked horrified. She knew about the Chamber, having read _Hogwarts: A History _more times that she could count on her fingers. She had a feeling it might be more than folklore, but had never believed that it would be reopened in her lifetime. It must have been a serious ordeal for the Headmaster to tackle. She felt a little guilty for having walked out on her duty to him and the school a year ago, but she would have been of little help anyway. 

"No one was hurt, although your concern is touching," he answered blandly. The sarcasm was rewarded only with a hassled look from Jude. "So you were not involved in this at all?" He looked at her over steepled fingers, his suspicions still not quelled. Finally, he sighed and shuffled some parchment. "You really should read the papers." Jude assumed it was his way of admitting defeat, however ungraceful his tactics were. 

"One more thing," the Minister looked up from his busy shuffling of papers. "You are well aware that you are forbidden to Apparate for any reason whatsoever." 

Jude betrayed an amused smile, a stretch for her, considering how she felt at the moment. "Oh, come on. I was just giving your boys a run for their money. I knew they wouldn't be that far behind me."

The Minister appeared agitated at her lack of respect for the rules governing her. "That is not the point. Severe penalties must follow the breaking of such rules…"

"Come off it, Fudge," Jude interrupted icily. "You couldn't pin the Chamber incident on me, your accusations that I killed my best friend are flimsy, yet you are so desperate to throw my ass in prison, that you would make a big deal out of me Apparating? Do you know how big of a joke you are?" Jude leaned forward casting a scrutinizing glare on the Minister, disbelief written all over her face. She was mocking him. 

"I could have locked you away several times over by now. Mercy is the only thing keeping me from doing so at this very moment." He peered down his nose at her incredulously. 

It was amusing to watch the Minister scrape together what dignity Jude had left him with. "Mercy! You don't even know how to spell it. You do nothing out of mercy. You do everything out of fear—fear of how it would look to everyone around you, fear of losing Dumbledore's support and advice…"

Indignant sputtering was the only reply Fudge had to offer. 

Jude continued to drive the blows home. "Without Dumbledore whispering instructions to you in every matter, you wouldn't even be manager of the local fish n' chips shop."

Fudge had had enough. "You are treading on thin ice, young lady…very thin ice. I could have you sent to prison this very moment, with or without Dumbledore's consent."

Jude sank wearily back into her chair, Darcy dozing obliviously by her feet. "Then do it. Send me to prison. To Azkaban. I don't care. Whatever feeble, trumped-up charges you can concoct, I'll go along with it. The truth is, the guilt I feel is by far worse than your cells and bars. I would be a poor meal for any of your precious Dementors. So, go ahead and call your goons to come and take me away. Lock me up forever and you'll never have to worry about me again." Jude's expression was blank, cold and lifeless. She had given up and expected Fudge to gleefully take her up on her offer. 

Instead of calling in the guards that waited just outside the door, Fudge sighed and rubbed his temples. The one thing he'd always wanted—to see his mentor's prize in hand, the one that got away, offering him the chance to put her away for life—and he could not take it. His pride wouldn't let him. It was too easy—she had given up the fight. All triumph in the matter was lost for him. At length, he grumbled something inaudibly and dismissed her with an agitated wave of his hand. 

She gaped at the Minister, crestfallen and morose, as he waved her from his office. This was all he'd ever wanted, what he'd worked for. It was well known that the dearest desire to his heart was to see her locked away after having slipped through the fingers of his mentor, Howard Jennings, the former Minister of Magic. He was throwing away his life's mission. She couldn't understand it. Still, she rose from the chair, taking Darcy's lead and walked silently from the office.

The Minister's only reconciling thought was that there would be plenty more opportunities to see the arrogant little girl finally behind bars and the victory would be sweet. 

***

                Back out in the pouring rain. Only the streets were no longer of her beloved Cambridge. She could never go back there. But where else could she go? She could just wander the streets alone, allowing the full weight of her misery eventually drive her into the ground. Darcy nudged her leg, reminding her that she wasn't the only one standing on the desolate London street in the driving rain. Jude looked down at the dog that seemed miserable. She deserved more than this at least. 

                She took firm hold of the lead attached to Darcy's collar and reached inside her soaked shirt. It was still there, the silver charm dangling from the chain around her neck. The numbness of the shock that had kept her together for the past few hours was beginning to wear. She could feel it. Reality was about to set in. It was instinct that caused her to reach for the charm and all that was safe.


	20. So Far Down

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from the creation of this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Twenty: So Far Down 'I'm looking down, now that it's over, reflecting on all  of my mistakes. 

_I thought I found a road to somewhere…_

_Somewhere in His grace.___

_I cried out "Heaven, save me!"_

_But I'm down to one last breath,_

And with it let me say… 

_Hold me now, I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_

_Maybe six feet ain't so far down…'_

_Creed, One Last Breath_

                The storms had abated slightly—the thunder was but a distant rumbling now, almost lost behind the pounding of the rain against the roof and windows. The dark sky bore no signs of the dawn, which was still hours off. Professor Snape pushed back from the desk and rubbed his eyes. He'd been pouring over the thick, dusty volume for hours, yet time had not made the words clearer. There was still much work to do on it, but the progress would not be pushed and prodded along. He sighed and leaned back in the chair. 

                He heard a knock. Was it a knock? Listening for the sound to repeat itself, he wondered where the disturbance could be coming from. Again it sounded. Certainly not at the front door, he thought. Who would be knocking on his door at such an hour? Then the noise ceased as quickly as it had begun. 

                Turning back to work on the tome in front of him, he looked up in agitation as the sound resumed. A knock at the front door. Where were the bloody house elves? 

                Rising from his chair, he stomped out of the study and into the main hall. The dark corridors were empty and the sound of his ill-tempered footsteps and the incessant knocking echoed admirably. Reaching the front door, he pulled it open in a manner that would leave the disturber in no doubt of his displeasure. 

                Behind the heavy, oak door stood a small figure soaked through with rain. Although the person had their back turned to the door as he first opened it, he had no doubt of whom it was. And as the door creaked loudly, causing the figure to jump and spin to face it, his guess was confirmed. It was Jude. And by her side was a bedraggled and miserable-looking dog. They both looked distraught.

                "Jude. What on earth are you doing here at this time of morning?" He didn't mean to sound so harsh, but such an unexpected surprise had put him off. 

                "I'm sorry, Professor. But I…well, I came here…" she stammered. She really had no clue as to why she was there. 

                Regaining possession of his wits, he ushered her into the entry and out of the rain. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were in Cambridge. What happened?" Although he was extremely curious as to why she was standing there, dripping, in his doorway, he immediately felt a pang of remorse at his last question, seeing her shoulders slump and her expression fall in defeat and utter despair. 

                Looking down at her feet, she muttered distractedly. "I'm making a mess." She glanced around her and Darcy shook her thick coat next to her, blanketing the area with sprinkles of rainwater. Jude snapped her fingers absently and the dog was dry once again and happily combing her new surroundings. "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have come here. I'll leave if you want me to." She began to turn toward the door. 

                The professor reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her retreat. "Don't be silly, why would I want you to go?" She appeared destroyed, but thankful for the invitation nonetheless. 

                "I don't want to be any trouble but I didn't know where else to go."

                "You're always trouble," he replied, trying to elicit even the smallest of smiles from her. It didn't work. It was alarming—he'd only seen her this broken and helpless once before and the memory was not comforting in the least. "Well, there's a fire in the study. Why don't you come and sit down. You can tell me what's wrong," but a stony glance from Jude told him she'd rather not discuss this at the moment. "Or we can just ignore each other."

                She found herself seated in front of the fire, a warm towel entwined absently around her hands, supporting her chin, elbows propped on her knees. Exhaustion enveloped her—she was more tired than she had been in as long as she could remember. It must be the booze, she thought as she stared into the angry orange flames. But she couldn't sleep—she didn't know if she would ever be able to again. 

                Professor Snape had returned to his dusty volume a few minutes before after a failed attempt to extract information from Jude. He'd gathered that the problem had its origins in the chap from the letter, which she'd confirmed only to bar further questions. So he came back to the tedious translations, finding them less torturous than watching Jude beat herself up. He expected to be shut out—she, like himself, never excepted help with much grace. But the look on her face worried him.

***

                Her thoughts paralyzed her—she could neither move forward nor backward. She simply thought on those last ten minutes or so when Rhys had finally learned the truth and had seen her for what she was—the last thing he would ever see her as. A better torture could never be contrived. 

                She lay on the sofa in the study for as long as she could bear to stay still, consumed by memories. After a while, though, she couldn't fight the impulse to move—to simply become too busy to think. Climbing the dark stairs to the room she used to occupy most summers as a child, she opened the heavy door. The smell of frozen time hung heavy in the air. This room held the feeling of sameness, of permanence, and of stability. Here, things didn't change. 

                But everything had changed. She was no longer a schoolgirl dealing with bullies. She was an adult with bigger problems than hateful children and unfair rules. A promise she had made to herself all those years ago had been broken. She'd killed another. Even though she had no intention of harming him, she'd killed him just the same. If she had said nothing, just swallowed her fears and kept quiet, he'd still be here. But because of her, he was dead. 

                It might not have hurt so much if it had been a stranger. But it was Rhys she had lead to his death, the person she loved more than anything else in her miserable existence. Fairness had never been a promise made to her, but Rhys deserved much more. It wasn't fair for him. If God supposedly watched out for His children, why wasn't he watching out for Rhys? Why did He allow him to meet her in the first place? Maybe it was punishment for her to be handed everything she'd ever wanted only to snatch it away. But Rhys was innocent, so why did he ever have to suffer?

                It was her fault. She could pass the blame to anyone and everyone else—God, Fate, whatever. But the glaring reality was that she was to blame. She should have just stayed here, she shouldn't have taken that other road—she shouldn't have invited change in to wreck everything. 

                Walking to the wardrobe, she flung the doors open wide. Change had left this place untouched, but she wouldn't. It was mocking her. _This is the decision you should have made, and you fucked that up didn't you, Jude? _

                Well, she would silence that snide voice. Neatly hung uniforms and robes, tidy stacks of books, and orderly rows of other miscellaneous objects were soon reduced to satisfying heaps of debris. The room was remade into the landscape of some recent catastrophe. Finally assuaged when the last item had been misplaced and the last knick-knack had been reduced to several glimmering shards on the rug, she turned to the large mirror over the chest of drawers. She looked frantically for a heavy object that had not already been destroyed. The glass revealed to her a murderer, and the price for that sin was death. A shoe was as good as a guillotine and she picked it up, the weight in her hand was reassuring, the release was euphoric, and the sound of the polished surface shattering was bliss. 

                But as fleeting as the sound of crashing glass was that feeling and as she opened her eyes, the murderer stared back at her, only now she was skewed by a thousand tiny cracks. She sank onto the rubble of her war on the room, defeated. Her wandering gaze was caught momentarily by something that had previously escaped her notice. It was a piece of parchment that she did not remember leaving there the last time she left this place. Stumbling over books and snagging her feet on disheveled curtains, she finally managed to grasp the object in her hands, poised to tear it into a thousand stamp-sized pieces. 

                The writing, however, had kept her attention long enough for her to realize what she was holding. Rhys' letter to her when she was at Hogwarts. 

                Blindly making her way across the room, nothing significant enough to take her eyes away from the paper she was holding in shaking hands, she somehow managed to find the bed before her knees gave out from under her. He said he loved her—but which 'her'? He'd looked at her for the last time as if he had never seen her before, but there was still that something in his eyes that reassured her that because he still loved her, he was able to feel such pain. 

                It didn't matter, she reasoned as she curled up with the letter on the bare mattress, the bed not having survived her rage. He was dead and debating whether he hated her now or not was a moot point. He wouldn't be coming back to confirm or deny the fact. This letter was all that was left. 

***

                Two days had passed and Jude had barely moved an inch from where she lay on the bed in the midst of the catastrophe that used to be her ordered and unchanging room. The house elves, namely Fritzy, came in periodically to check on her, never succeeding, however, in eliciting any response from her beyond a blank stare. Professor Snape had even tried a few times himself. But the expression—or lack of—on Jude's face was clear—she wanted no help; she wanted to remain drowning in her own misery; she had given up. 

                It soon became apparent to Jude after several hours of observance that Fritzy was on a schedule. She should have guessed. The elf was meticulous in every activity she performed. And even though it seemed Jude was oblivious to the world around her, nothing much passed in that room without her noticing it. For those two days, Jude had not slept at all, for fear of the dreams that may come. Her waking visions of what had happened were vivid enough without having to clarify everything with unconsciousness. 

                But after forty-eight hours of this excruciating torture, she'd had enough. She deserved this misery, but she couldn't stand the looks on the faces of those who worried for her. As soon as Fritzy had left, leaving Darcy curled up at Jude's feet, hoping that the dog would bring some comfort to her mistress, Jude picked her head up off of the bare mattress. She looked around the dark room, guessing that it was now sometime after one in the morning. As she got to her feet to find a safe path from where she stood to the door, Darcy jumped off the bed and to her side, eager to follow Jude to wherever it was she was going. 

                The door opened onto the hallway without a sound, and Jude slipped out and down the silent corridor, unseen. Carefully, she crept to a door opening onto the grounds behind the house. 

                Opening the door, she silently passed through, entreating Darcy not to follow her further. "You can't come where I am going, dearest." She patted the dog on the head, vainly trying to quiet her whining. "Stay here, you'll be safe and taken care of." And she closed the door quietly, leaving the dog to beg at the window, watching her follow the path down the sloping grounds leading to the cliffs.

                The path was rocky and her bare feet fought for purchase at every step, but she found her spot with little difficulty. It was a stony outcrop a little higher than the fairly flat lip of the cliff. The drop was steep and the distant crash of the waves at the base only punctuated the distance between where she stood atop the rocks to the raging sea below. 

                The cold, pale light from the nearly full moon glinted off of the glassy waves like starlight on cool steel. It was beautiful. Or it would have been beautiful, if she allowed herself to be deluded by this world any longer. The truth was that life wasn't beautiful—it was cold and cruel. Her senses had lied to her: the world was not made of energy and delight, but of foulness, betrayal, and despair. She felt a melancholy weariness more profound than at any other point in her life; it was so profound that it consumed her and placed all other feeling but utter defeat and despair out of reach. Like Tantalus, happiness was just as far from her grasp. Living was hateful, endless pain, but would death be any better?

                It couldn't possibly be any worse. Life was a hideous and sickening despair, and from end to end of the universe this was the first and last and only truth.* 

***

                Another late night in the study, yet the work he was bent over provided little distraction. The professor's mind wandered, despite concentrated efforts, to Jude. She hadn't eaten or slept in days, and he was still haunted by that look in her eyes, one of morose defeat—she had given up whatever fight she had been struggling with. What could possibly have caused her to concede everything, to let go of all that she had wanted? Something devastating must have happened to bar her from her life at Cambridge forever. And the reason was becoming clearer to him as he thought on it. 

                Those thoughts, however, were interrupted as the dog, Jude's companion, ran in, tail wagging. What was the story behind the dog anyway? He was never told anything about it, not even its name. But it seemed that this dog was important to Jude, so he would tolerate its curious presence. The dog stood in the doorway, whining. Not very familiar with animals beyond their various uses in potions, he had no clue what the dog wanted. He rose from his chair, frustrated with the annoying hound. The dog excitedly wagged her tail and ran from the room, but when he didn't follow, she ran back in and looked at him, questioningly. Was she trying to tell him something? It was an utterly ridiculous notion, but still he found himself being led to a door at the back of the manor by the dog. 

                "You want to go out?" The dog wagged her tail and clawed impatiently at the door. He opened it and the dog, not waiting for the opening to widen much, pressed through and ran out into the moonlight. Before shutting the door behind the curious hound, he looked out over the grounds. The dog was running out onto the cliff's edge. And what he saw then made him freeze instantly. It was Jude, perched on the cliff precariously, looking down at the raging ocean. 

***

                _Before taking his seat at the head table, the professor made the customary sweep of his house's students. Everyone was seated at the Slytherin table, awaiting the start of the feast. Everyone except Jude. It was no surprise to him, however. In the past five years, he'd learned that questioning Jude about her whereabouts and imposing silly rules were dead ends—she just ignored them. _

_                A few more minutes passed before Dumbledore finally ambled through the door and took his chair, signaling the feast to begin, as usual. But just as soon as the Headmaster had settled into his seat, the door to the Great Hall was flung open, admitting a pale, frantic student. It was a girl with dark hair running between the rows of tables toward the head table, toward him. As she came closer, he recognized her in an instant—it was Marah Talbot, a sixth year student from his own house. Why had he not realized before that she was missing? Looking now at the table, he could clearly see that she was not in her customary spot next to Sabine and Adalaide—all Jude's roommates and her most avid tormenters. _

_                "Professor," the girl called, sliding to a halt in front of him. "You have to come…it's…you have to come now." She took only a few moments to catch her breath and assure herself that her words were being heeded, then raced once again through the doors with Professor Snape close at her heels. _

_                As she bounded up a flight of stairs, he tried to drag more information from the girl. "Miss Talbot, what is going on?"_

_                But the girl did not answer. She slowed only little to wave him on further. He realized that she was heading in the direction of the Slytherin common room. Stepping into the common room, he was even more puzzled by the student's behavior. She raced through the empty space, dodging chairs and tables, reaching a series of dark corridors. She took the one on the right at top speed and finally stopped by an open door. Pointing frantically into the room, she indicated that this was their destination—the girls' washroom?_

_                He paused in front of her, giving her a cold stare, waiting for some sort of explanation. But the frightened, pale expression on her face as she looked past him caused him to forget his annoyance and follow her horrified stare through the door. A mirror was shattered, shards glinting in the low light of the room, scattered over the white floor. A figure, clad in a white bath-robe was sitting on the floor beneath a white porcelain sink, knees drawn in on itself and head resting against the corner where two walls met. Red blood stood out vividly among the bland shades of white. _

_                Pulling himself free of the spot where he stood, rooted to the ground, he quickly reached the figure he instantly recognized as Jude. A shard of mirrored glass glinted beneath a slack hand, duller than the other shards, for it was covered in a thick glistening coat of deep red. Her left arm lay cradled in her lap, covered in the same dark shade. A ragged gash began at her small wrist and chased its way up her arm, stopping finally at her elbow. The chasm in the skin was narrow at the start but widened and deepened considerably as it passed along the skin on which the Dark Mark was branded. Crimson blood ran like a swollen river breeching its banks and overflowed onto the white robe, saturating the cloth with the thick, sticky, burgundy liquid. _

_                Her other arm lay by her side on the cool tiles of the floor, just next to her weapon of choice—the crimson-stained blade of mirrored glass. The slash creeping up this arm was considerably smaller—she must have become too weak already, after having done such an efficient job on her left arm, to cause any serious damage to the right. Still, the blood trickled down in tiny creeks and rivers from the pale skin of that arm and onto the white tiles, forming a modest pool._

_                Spinning on his heels in the middle of the chaos that used to be an orderly washroom, he faced the raven-haired girl, who stood gaping at the figure on the floor with both fists to her mouth. "Talbot," he shouted at her, "fetch Madam Pomfrey." Marah stood, stock still, not hearing a word that was spoken to her. "Now!" he bellowed, shaking the girl from her frightened daze. She immediately turned and fled the room, hopefully to do as she was ordered. _

_                As Marah ran out, the professor turned and knelt next to the crumpled figure of Jude. He touched her face. It was icy and pale—the light gray tone of a black and white film. There was still a faint pulse: she was still alive, but she probably wouldn't last another few minutes. Folding both scarlet wrists onto her chest, he drew her into his arms, cradling her head, like a father with a sleeping child. Her hair was wet and clung to her dry face, her lips parched and pale. There didn't seem to be much left to save. _

_                This was his fault. He knew she'd been upset since Dumbledore had asked to speak with her in his office. He thought she would be pleased to know that she had earned the position of Head Girl for the upcoming year—her final year. At first, she simply, and politely turned down the offer. But, as there was only little competition—only a handful of Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs and one other Slytherin were even close enough to be considered and none in the same league as Jude—there would have to be a marked decline in her grades and one of the other girls would have to out perform her academically for her to lose the position. After a long discussion with her, he thought she had become reconciled to the fact that she'd earned this and was deserving of the honor. Still, she was wary of how much unwanted attention this would bring on her and her suspicions were confirmed when the rumor was spread among the students. More fellow classmates took up their favorite pastime of taunting Jude, with the occasional outcome of a fight in which she was always the inevitable loser. _

_                So in the past couple of days, she'd become even more withdrawn than usual—skipping meals in the Great Hall where too many hostile students were gathered, avoiding the corridors after classes and the like. But then he noticed that she had stopped doing the homework for most of her classes, she'd begun botching even the simplest of potions, and purposely answering questions incorrectly or not at all. It didn't take a genius to see where all of this was going. She was trying to fail enough of her classes to lose the position of Head Girl. _

_                He, of course, had made sure that she understood what she was doing. "It's not like you have many options, Jude," he remembered himself say._

_                "I know," she replied. "I have a rap sheet longer than the roster for the House of Commons." It was a joke with no humor behind it. "I know that this would have been one more feather in my cap, another incentive for someone to give me a decent job when Dumbledore finally chucks me out." She stared at her feet. "I know I need to do the best I can here, while I have the chance…but you don't know what it's like…I can't take this anymore." _

_                Her words haunted him now. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Her face alone these last few days betrayed how desperate she was. He'd noted the hollow, melancholy exhaustion and despair several times. How much stress she must have been under with the torment from her classmates forcing her to sacrifice any future just for a moment's peace? The strain must have been unbearable, and, even though she was one of the strongest persons he'd ever met, she'd finally cracked under the pressure. He should have said something, helped her somehow. But she'd had to deal all alone as usual. _

_                If she didn't make it through this, it would be his fault and no one else's. She had to live because he would not be able to live with that sort of guilt. He hugged her closer to himself, hoping that his will for her to live was strong enough. Hers apparently was not sufficient. _

_                A strong grip on his shoulder alerted him of the presence of others in the room. Looking up, he saw that the hand belonged to Professor McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey had already begun bustling around Jude as she lay, still and cold in his arms, whispering incantations and prodding the wounds. "She's going to be just fine, Severus." Madam Pomfrey's expression was hopeful as she set back to work on her patient. _

_                Looking at the cold, pale face once more before being led out of the gradually crowding room by Professor McGonagall, he noted that for once in the last couple of days, Jude actually seemed peaceful, and it might be cruel to snatch her from her rest. But could he live, knowing that he'd missed that hopeless and despairing look, and just one notice might have made all of the difference?_

***

                She didn't slip away that time and he wouldn't let her get that close to death ever again under his watch. He'd learned from his mistake. That look that had haunted him ever since she'd appeared suddenly two nights ago on his doorstep would not go unheeded. He pulled away from his thoughts and ran out into the cool night air, the sloping ground caressed by ocean breeze and starlight. The dog bounded easily ahead of him and reached the rocky outcrop before he did. Clambering, trying to haul herself up the rough stone to reach Jude, the dog whined as she failed to climb up. She ignored the plaintive sounds of the dog and continued to stare out over the vast plain of water. For summer, it was a damn cold night. The wind off of the sea whipped around her, flinging her hair into her face and then off again, pushing her away from the precarious edge then tugging her closer. This is what she deserved: if there was any justice left in the world, nothing would hinder her from ending her life, not even the bothersome wind. One step closer, then another, until the only thing under the next step would be space. Would it hurt? She shook her head. It didn't really matter.

                A voice. Was it a voice? The wind was trailing every sound away from her but the sound of the crashing waves. It was a voice, calling a name—her name. Without turning around she knew who it was. 

                "Go away." Her voice was hollow and bland. She didn't have to speak loudly to be heard, however, because the words were carried back on the breeze to the person behind her. She wanted to spare everyone the pain of seeing her do something like this—it was a mistake she'd made before when she tried to end her life back in her sixth year. She'd made it all too visible and she was sorry for it. The rumors it spurred among her classmates and the pain it must have caused her teachers who'd been there, she regretted it all. And this time she was hoping she could make a clean break. But, despite her best effort, he was standing behind her, anxiously watching every move she made. She felt horrible for what she was about to do to the person who'd looked out for her for the last ten years, but that guilt would not stop her from what she was about to do.

                "Come down, Jude. It shouldn't be like this." He was now standing at the foot of the large rock, calming Darcy as she gave up the idea of scaling the height to be at Jude's side. 

                "You don't want to do this," he urged further, hoping that his words were not being ignored. 

                "How do you know?" she spat back with as much feeling as she could muster, but her voice still sounded dull and flat to her ears. 

                "Because you want what Rhys would have wanted. And I don't think he would have been pleased to know that you jumped off a cliff."

                "Rhys," she said and her shoulders sagged as if under an invisible, yet enormous weight. "I killed him, you know." 

                "No, you didn't."

                "Yes, I did. I might not have pushed him out in front of that car, but I spoke the words that…" She trailed off, looking out beyond the cliffs but seeing nothing. 

                "It may seem like that, but…"

                "But nothing, I killed him. I promised myself that I would never hurt another person as long as I lived and I broke that promise as easily as I made it. I am a murderer and I do not deserve any more nor any less than this." She moved with purpose toward the edge, shifting her weight forward. 

                "Yes, but don't you owe more to him?" He tried to remain calm, but it was difficult rationally talking to someone as dangerously willful and stubborn as Jude. He fought to control his temper. "How can you die tonight knowing that you didn't do everything in your power to make it right?"

                "How can I make this right?" She turned to him, eyes flashing with hidden anger she didn't realize she still possessed. Every emotion, she thought, had been drained from her as she read that doctor's morose expression and knew her whole world was over. "This can never be fixed—he's dead!"

                "Do you know why you didn't die that night, five years ago?" 

                "Yeah, that nosy bitch Marah fucked it all up." Contempt flitted across her face. Things would have been so much simpler if she'd just died that night. From then till now had been just a waste of time and a whole lot of unnecessary pain. 

                "No, because you still had a job to do. Like now." He had to string her along, keep her distracted long enough for her resolve to wear thin. But this was Jude—that could take the rest of the night and the whole of the next day. "You owe Rhys. I believe that you still have a part to play." And after a short pause, he added, "His parents…they were murdered by Voldemort, am I correct?"

                "How did you…?" 

                "I did a little poking around, I found that letter of yours, you know."

                "Yeah. I figured that.

                "Well, do you think that you owe him vengeance?" She gave him a puzzled look before turning her head away. "He can no longer help to bring down the man responsible for his parents' deaths…but you can. You can make it up to him—keeping your past a secret from him. I think those who still fight the Dark Lord need you. You are not finished here." He was satisfied to see her sink into a few moments' thought. 

                "But that was the last chance I had…" she said, defeated. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Any chance I had to become something other than what Voldemort created me for is gone." Her blank, unfeeling eyes turned back to the sea. "The last bit of…humanity…happiness…joy…whatever, it died with Rhys. He was the last hope I had to change, to be anything but that cold, cruel, merciless shell that Voldemort had trained me to be." She leaned forward, looking down the steep drop. It didn't seem so far down now. 

                Her knees buckled. For a minute, she believed that she would finally do what she'd been building up the courage for. The professor stepped forward, knowing that he was powerless to stop her from falling. But instead, she sank to her feet, placing her hand on the rock to steady herself. She pressed her other hand to her forehead, her face dissolving from the hardened resolve of someone with nothing to lose into tears. "You're right," she finally conceded through bitter sobs. 

                The tears were as alarming as they were unexpected. He'd never seen Jude cry in the ten years he'd known her. Without a clue how to comfort her, he was at a loss for what to do next. But seeing her like that, bare feet tucked under her, hands pressed to her face, and falling apart was almost too much to bear. So, suffering all the awkwardness of one not used to dealing with emotional scenes—neither of them were, really, and it had to be just as humbling for Jude, he thought—he climbed the stony precipice and sat down on next to her. He wrapped one arm around her—a simple gesture, but it let her know she was not sitting there alone. She took her hands away from her tear-streaked face and buried herself in the comforting presence next to her. She would probably regret such a show of weakness later, but right now it felt oddly, refreshingly childlike to cry and she didn't mind.


	21. A Fine Mess

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowlilng and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Twenty-One: A Fine Mess

'They called it Paradise 

_I don't know why,_

_But call someplace __Paradise__,_

_Kiss it goodbye.'_

The Eagles, 'Providence' 

                Harsh daylight poured in, unhindered, through curtain-less windows. Jude blinked against the cruel light, but was thankful for the interruption of her dreams. Looking around, she wondered where the hell she was. The room she found herself in was a wreck and the slant of the sun belied that it was well after noon. 

                Then, she remembered—everything. The dream she'd been struggling to wake from was glaring reality. Rhys was, in fact, dead. And her Paradise was lost. But that was her own doing, she understood. It was an attachment she never should have made; letting someone or someplace become too important was just asking for pain, like the acute, unrelenting feeling that enveloped her now. 

                The only person to blame was staring back at her through the shattered glass that was once a mirror. She'd set that other world up on a pedestal—she'd set him there as well. Paradise, she called it. And just like Eden, she was barred forever from its gates. She'd made a mess of everything there. Still, if she had it to do over again, would she choose the safe road? No, even through the misery she now suffered, she would never trade a second she'd spent with him, in that Paradise. 

                Well, what's done is done. If she refused to trade that time for blissful indifference, then she would have to pay for that. But no longer would she fall apart—sulking every now and then would be acceptable, but no more perching atop cliff ledges, contemplating her demise. There was a duty, a commission to fulfill in Rhys' name. She couldn't change the past and what she'd been—she'd come to terms with that already—and her death would never right any of her wrongs. But she could ensure that Voldemort never hurt another again, as he'd hurt Rhys. 

                Unfolding her legs from under her, she got up off of the bed, looked around and sighed. If she didn't have something to busy her hands with and occupy her mind, she'd sink further into that muddled pool of despair again. Shaking her head mournfully, she surveyed the mess at her feet. She couldn't believe the scene she'd made the night before—it was truly embarrassing to have been that unhinged and vulnerable in front of another person. And of all people, it had to be the professor. How humiliating.

                Groaning as she took tentative steps through the debris, she felt every movement she made through her tense and aching muscles. Swiveling her stiff neck to loosen it a bit, she bent down to begin the long task of making sense once again of this disorder. It would take hours, but she had enough of those to spare. It was a thorough job she'd done on this room a few days before, and no mistake. She just wondered how much of this could be righted and just how long that would take. 

                Jumping slightly as the door opened, Jude turned to see Fritzy's tiny, pink face poking through the door. 

                "Oh, Miss is awake," the elf squeaked with delight. 

                Jude only managed a weak smile that felt more like a grimace, and bent back to the shattered remains of an inkbottle that had bled its contents onto the rug. 

                "Let Fritzy help, Miss." The elf hurried over to where Jude knelt amidst the disordered heaps. 

                "No, Fritzy," Jude held up a weary hand and begged the elf to halt. "Thank you, but I made this mess and I intend to clean it up."

                "But it could take hours, Miss," Fritzy protested wide-eyed and shaking her head doubtfully. 

                "I hope so, I need a distraction." She returned to pulling the shards from the rug and casting them into a wastebasket, cutting her fingers slightly, but ignoring it. She could not damage the rug further, so why not add a little scarlet to the indigo?

                "If Miss wishes," the elf sighed as she picked a precarious path back to the door. "But Fritzy would have gladly helped." She sounded stricken by the refusal. 

                "I know," Jude reassured kindly, but firmly. "But I need to do this alone."

                With head hung, resigned, Fritzy left Jude to the mess. 

                The sky was a deep purple-black by the time Jude had finished righting the ravaged room. What she could fix was mended and what she could not repair was discarded. Everything else was stowed in its proper place—the room was as it had always been. Almost. 

                Picking up the worn piece of parchment, she folded it carefully and placed it in her back pocket—the last item out of place had found its home with her always. It was Rhys' letter, now a memento of what could have been, who she could have been. Before leaving the room, she glanced up at the mirror—that would remain broken. She had no desire of seeing the reflection clearly ever again.

***

                Looking up from the various parchments and books that littered the desk, he watched as she walked into the study, dragging her feet sullenly. At least she was no longer wearing the rain-soaked jeans and shirt she'd lived in for three days. That had to be a good sign. 

                She shuffled to the sofa in front of the fire and plopped down among the stiff pillows. Pulling her bare feet under her and tucking her arms inside her robe, she rested her chin on her knees and stared blankly at the flames. The professor noted with a little relief that the dead and hollow look of hopelessness was gone from her face, but dark clouds still hung heavy over her expression. 

                Neither person spoke; the silence remained untouched and pristine in the dark, but cozy room. The professor returned to his books and papers, and Jude sank back into thought. Was it going to be like last time, Jude thought? How long would the awkward silence last this time? A week, maybe. After the melodramatic incident in her sixth year, the worst part of the whole matter was the feeling that those around her were cautious, as if she were fragile, or unstable. She had to admit, it did seem as if she were a bit nutters, attempting to kill herself—twice. And she couldn't imagine that it was an easy matter to deal with for the professor. For a moment she felt a little guilty, having put him through all of this for a second time. She looked over tentatively at the desk where he sat, bent over papers, seemingly oblivious to anything else going on around him—it was almost as it had been before. How long would it take, however, for things to be completely normal again? Would things ever be normal again? She pondered this question, as her eyes raked the room for a distraction. It was laying on the small, octagonal cherry table to her right. The book she'd begun a fifth journey through a few summers before lay there still, unmolested and waiting her return. _Les Miserables_—thank God for Hugo and his immortal Paris. She opened the pages to lose herself in others misfortunes for once. She didn't want to read about a happy ending at the moment.

***

                Jude allowed the rest of the summer to pass in much the same manner: curled up on the sofa in her bathrobe and bare feet, preferring books to sleep or conversation. Darcy could be found most nights on the rug at Jude's feet, sharing her depression. The study was their favorite haunt, because, even though company was obsolete to Jude, she preferred not to be alone too often. 

                This night was no exception. Jude sat with the book open on her lap, bent over it and engrossed in the story. The boys on the barricade died one by one, their efforts brave but futile—their small band the sure losers against the French National Guard. The valiant carnage in the story was interrupted by a tapping sound coming from the window, which Hobbs, a small, bluish house elf, hurried over to attend to. Jude, watching as the elf opened the window, letting the cool sea breezes in, returned to the pages of her book. An owl flew through the opening and landed on the professor's desk—nothing much of interest for her. Darcy, however, was very amused and rushed over to examine the creature, which screeched and ruffled its feathers in a none-too-friendly salutation. After the professor had taken the letter from the owl, it raced through the open window agitatedly and back into the night air. 

                "This one's addressed to you," she heard the professor remark, tossing a letter at her. She looked up in just enough time to snatch the letter from the air before it smacked her in the forehead. That would have been graceful, she thought ruefully as she turned the creamy parchment envelope over in her hands. 

                It was from Hogwarts—from Dumbledore. She promptly threw the envelope into the flames, and returned to her book. 

                "You shouldn't have done that," she heard the professor chide mildly. "What if it was important? And most of his letters are."

                "So what?" she retorted blandly. "I'm done with that place. Rhys wasn't the only reason I left."

                "I know." The professor bent back to his work. She was being silly and childish and there was no point in arguing with her at the moment. 

                Hours marched on in silence until the dull, gray fingers of dawn began clawing their way westward, chasing the indigo from the sky. Jean Valjean had traversed the catacombs of Paris, bringing a wounded Marius to safety and to inevitably replace himself as Cosette's caretaker. Javert had long since perished in the raging Seine and now the hero was about to die alone, the ultimate payment for wrongs committed in his life. It was a cruel price to pay for merely stealing bread and attempting to escape from prison, but still Valjean died having lost everything that was ever dear to him and was buried and forgotten. He was merely a thief—how much more painful would her penance be for the sins she'd committed in her own life? 

                She closed the book and set it down on the table next to her as Fritzy and Milly entered with tea. Darcy, ever curious of the little creatures, jumped up from her spot on the rug and raced over to the two frightened elves, eager for another examination. Jude called the dog to order, only to lose her attention again as Hobbs came in with the paper and various other letters. He ceremoniously left them on the corner of his master's desk, unnoticed. The elf retreated from the room with a curious hound right at his heels. 

                Taking a cup of the steaming, but weak liquid in her hands, she entreated the two elves to stay and keep her company. Of course, they refused, eager to get back to their work. So she got up off of the sofa and headed to the desk to pilfer the paper before the professor noticed. But as she reached the desk, she noticed another letter, the same curious green ink and crest adorning its front. 

                "Well, you have to hand it to him, he is persistent." And she picked up the letter, smirking a little as the professor, who'd been engrossed in his work, jumped a little at the sound of her voice so unexpectedly close. He hadn't noticed her get up and walk across the room. 

                "Don't do that," he entreated her as she walked back to the sofa with her letter in hand. "Wear a bell or something," he grumbled, returning to his papers.

                It had taken a little over a month, but indeed, things had returned to normal—or as normal as they ever would be. She sighed as she plopped back down on the sofa. Throwing back the rest of the contents, she set the cup down on the tray and turned the letter over and over in her hands. Should she cast it into the flames as she had the other letter? Or should she hear the old man out?

                After moments of debate, curiosity got the better of her and she slid a finger under the wax seal. The elegant handwriting of the Headmaster filled one sheet of the thick parchment. She read:

                Dear Jude:

                It seems that my first letter experienced difficulties in reaching you. This one will, hopefully, find you, as it is a matter of great importance that I must convey to you. 

                A convict by the name of Sirius Black, I am sure you know of whom I speak, has escaped Azkaban. You are familiar with the reasons for which he is imprisoned, so I shall not bore you with the details. The purpose for alarm, however, is that he has been overheard speaking of Harry Potter. This naturally leads us to fear for the boy's safety, which is assured as long as he remains with his relatives in Surry. However, I have had information that Harry has run away from his relatives' home. But he has been found at the Leaky Cauldron and is safe for the moment—the Weasleys have been kind enough to see to it that he boards the train for Hogwarts. 

                And so I humbly seek your help once again, my dear. I need you to watch after Harry again, and aid in the capture of Sirius Black if at all possible. I rely on you. Please owl me your response as quickly as possible. 

                And please allow me to extend my apologies to you regarding the Stone incident. What can I say? Sometimes the wisest of men make the best fools. I am deeply and humbly sorry that I placed you and Harry in any danger. 

                I await your reply anxiously.

                Albus Dumbledore

                Headmaster

                Jude let the letter fall onto the table as she buried her face in her hands. She wasn't ready for this—for any of it. If she went back now, she would only be operating on anger and hatred—a dangerous mindset for a mission like this. Rhys's death still weighed too heavily on her, and she wasn't sure if that load would ever lighten. And she didn't want to go back. This would be yet another quest to prove herself to people who would never believe her to be capable of anything beyond murder and betrayal. She wasn't a hero—she had no business trying to catch the bad guy and save the world. It was ridiculous to even think that she was ready for this. 

                But there was that annoying, nagging sense of duty to Harry. She wished she could force herself not to give a damn about the boy, but that voice would not be silenced. This was something she could not turn away from. The only regret she had was that she would be pulled back into all of this and she was prepared for none of it. Oh, well. The world didn't wait for anyone. 

                She got up to find a piece of parchment to scratch a quick reply on. Naturally she turned to the desk, and saw the professor staring at the Daily Prophet with a clenched jaw and a murderous glare. She moved to see the front page, which he grasped in iron fists, wrinkling the paper between his fingers. 

                There was a picture of Sirius Black on the cover—a wanted picture showing a ragged and scrawny, deranged madman. Next to that picture was one of four men and a woman, all dressed in suits, except for the woman who was dressed in white—it was a wedding photograph. The woman and the man immediately to her right were easily recognizable. It was Harry's parents. There was a man that she didn't recognize, but next to him stood…Peter? It couldn't be. Her head swam and she felt a little unsteady on her feet. And next to James, Harry's father, stood the escapee, the man that had the whole of the wizarding community up in arms. What the hell was going on? She made a mental note to pick up a copy of the paper as soon as she reached Diagon Alley. She hadn't the slightest inkling of the story behind the man that Dumbledore seemed to think her familiar with. It was all a curious puzzle to her.

                She looked at the professor. His brow was furrowed, but in anger or concentration Jude could not tell. She finally spoke, shaking him from his thoughts.

                "I have to go to Diagon Alley," she informed him. "I may be gone for a while. Dumbledore needs me for something." 

                "Black?"

                She nodded. 

                "When?"

                "Now, actually." She sighed. "As soon as I can write a reply, I'm off."

                He shoved his chair back from the desk and folded the paper, gathering it into a neat pile along with all of the books and parchment littering the surface. He tossed a letter similar to the one she held in her hand on the top of the pile before picking up the lot and heading for the door.

                "I'd better be getting back to the school." He looked at the letter on the stacks of books in his arms. "Ten to one says that's what this letter is about." He opened the door and headed out into the gray corridor. Then he turned and called back to Jude who stood, perplexed, in the doorway. "Be careful this time, will you?" 

                She nodded dutifully and retreated back into the room. This time she didn't want to make a mess of things; this time she would get it right. It didn't take long for her to dig up a blank sheet of paper to scribble her hasty reply on. 

                Headmaster:

                I will do what you have asked, but on my terms alone. I will go directly to Diagon Alley to find Harry, and from there, I will play it by ear. Do not be alarmed if you do not hear from me for sometime, although I will do my best to stay in touch. I am going to try to lay low on this one, if you don't mind. Ministry trouble is the last thing I need at the moment.

                Yours,

                Jude

                After having traded her robe and pajamas for jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and her trainers, she bounded down the stairs to look for Fritzy. When she'd found her and entrusted her to look after Darcy and to send her letter off as soon as possible, she was out the door and headed for the fog of London. In her pocket was the letter Rhys had given her and the tiny gold bracelet she'd kept from her childhood. They were the only objects she took with her. 


	22. Black Rumors

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowlilng and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue is from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_, and is the property of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Black Rumors

'You love this town 

_Even if that doesn't ring true_

_You've been all over_

_And it's been all over you'_

_U2, 'Beautiful Day'_

                London was already beginning to bustle with energetic life, even this early in the morning. Grocers and shopkeepers were opening tidy stores on the streets and commuters hurried through the hustle to make it to work on time. The golden light of the morning only served to make the smog a more sickly shade of gray. 

                As she picked her way through the sea of humanity, heading in the general direction of Diagon Alley, she was struck with a thought that almost made her smile. It was like old times—this was always the best time to relieve the London population of the burden of their wallets. These people, oblivious to her as she waded through the pushing and shoving crowd, would be such easy targets if she were still in the business. But she was not, and like everyone else, she had somewhere to be. 

                A man in a dark suit and designer sunglasses failed to see her as he hurried from a newsstand and knocked her sideways into the racks of magazines as he passed, stopping long enough only to mutter an annoyed apology. Jude would have been grossly offended if her nose hadn't been smashed into the morning paper. 

                There, in the top corner of the Muggle daily news, was his face. Sure, it wasn't big billing for a dark wizard of his caliber, but she couldn't blame the paper. Not being able to obtain any credible facts on the ragged man, the paper probably couldn't make a more sufficient story out of this beyond a wanted poster. Still, Jude snapped up the paper, leaving shillings and pence behind her. 

                "Congratulations, Mister Black." Jude looked over the miniscule type that accompanied the terrifying photo—black and white newsprint of a Muggle snapshot. He'd made quite a fuss—enough to end up as a wanted man by the Muggle police as well—the Ministry was covering all its bases. But if she wanted to know why there was such a big to do, she would have to consult the Prophet. 

                Stepping from the sunlight into the dark and smoky pub tucked away on Charing Cross Road, Jude blinked the exhaustion out of her eyes. At the bar stood a beefy, older man with shirtsleeves rolled up over his massive forearms. He was polishing a row of glasses and conversing with the few patrons that occupied the tall stools that early in the morning. With the Muggle London newspaper tucked securely under one arm, she made her way silently to the opposite—vacant—side of the bar. Pretending not to be interested in anything around her, she listened intently to the conversation between guests and host. They were bent over a copy of the Daily Prophet.

                A thin man with a scarecrow-like appearance tapped the paper with his knuckles. "Killed thirteen people with one curse, dinn'ey Tom?" 

                The barkeeper, Tom, gave a judicious look to the thin man, still polishing the glass. "Well, that maybe so, but I still say he was a fine chap. Never caused no trouble 'round here."

                "Yeah, but everybody knows Black was a big supporter of You-Know-'Oo." A porky, little man next to the scarecrow slammed his fist down on the bar, causing the glasses of liquor to jump a little. Everyone around him nodded in agreement. 

                Jude furrowed her brow at this. Sirius Black—why wasn't the name ringing a bell? The face, angry and scowling, on the paper in front of her looked slightly familiar. But if he were, in fact, one of Voldemort's supporters, she would recognize the name. And she never forgot a name. She strained her memory looking for the time and the place she'd seen this man before, but she was tired and it simply wouldn't come.

                "An' when it was all over, when You-Know-'Oo was defeated, they was trackin' down all 'o his supporters." An elderly gentleman was now adding his recollections to the conversation. "Most of 'em came quietly, but not Black—he went mad. They cornered 'im in the middle of a street full of Muggles an' Black took out 'is wand and 'e blasted 'alf the street apart." The audience was captive and listened while the old man spoke in whispers, voice rising and falling at the right places as if he were a practiced storyteller. "One wizard got it, and a dozen Muggles died what got in the way. 'Orible, eh?" the man finished, casting around for an answer. The crowd remained silent, however, waiting for the end of the tale. "'E laughed," the man said, nodding his head as if confirming his own story. "Jus' stood there an' laughed. An' when reinforcements from the Ministry got there, 'e went with 'em quiet as anything, still laughing. Laughing the 'ole time, 'e was."

                "Coz 'es mad, inee?" the scarecrow man questioned the older patron. 

                "If 'e wasn't before 'e went to Azkaban, 'e will be now," said Tom as he continued to polish the same sparkling glass. 

                Jude involuntarily shuddered. One word from Fudge and she could have been in that place, right alongside Black. Did anyone deserve that, even if the charge was murder thirteen times over?

                "Ministry had a hell of a time coverin' that one up, they did." The fat man was gesturing with a half a glass of dark brown liquid, and the others around him nodded, grumbling their assent. 

                Shaking her head, Jude stared at the paper in front of her. What _didn't_ the Ministry try to cover up? They should be experts by now. She couldn't imagine that it had been too hard of a task for them. 

                Tom, losing interest in the tale, and noting a new customer, slowly walked over to the bar in front of Jude, still rubbing the glass with the grimy towel. 

                "Wad'ya havin,' Miss?"

                "Gin and Tonic." Jude didn't look up from the Muggle paper she was reading. 

                Tom looked Jude over—Muggle clothes, Muggle paper, even ordering drinks preferred by Muggles. "Blimey, Miss. I don't know how you managed to find your way in here, but…"

                Jude looked up from her paper, resting tired eyes on the exasperated barkeeper. "Not a Muggle, Tom. Don't get 'yer knickers in a twist."

                "Bloody hell, if it isn't little Judy." He beamed at her, quickly pouring her drink. "Been a while, ain't it? How long exactly?"

                "Eight years," she said, not smiling. Even though Tom was a nice enough guy, she had things on her mind and didn't need the hold up of rehashing old acquaintances. 

                "Eight years, cor, that's a long time." He set her drink down in front of her. She drained it quickly, setting the glass back down on the scrubbed, wooden bar.

                "Tom," she interrupted his amused stare, bringing him back from whatever thoughts he was now exploring. "Do you have a paper around?" 

                "Yeah, got one right here." He strode over to the group huddled around the Prophet and ripped it from under their elbows. "Don' mind if I borrow this, boys?" He brought the paper back and tossed it on the bar in front of Jude. 

                "Mind if I keep this, Tom?" But she didn't wait for an answer. She gathered the papers, tossed the barkeep a coin and headed for the back alley and the entrance to the wizard's marketplace. 

***

                "Black still at large." Jude read the headline of the imposing article that dominated the first page of the Daily Prophet as she sat under a shady awning of a little shop—she didn't bother to note the name of the place; she was too eager to get the scoop on the man she was supposed to be hunting. 

                "Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today." She read on, '"We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."'

                "Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis." Jude rolled her eyes. For all of the stupid things Fudge has been responsible for, it was typical of the Federation to kick up a fuss at the one intelligent thing he's done in his entire career. The government was seriously flawed, that was the only certainty in all of this mess. 

                She continued to read. Another not very glowing quote from Fudge furthered the article. '"Well, really, I had to, don't you know,' said an irritable Fudge. 'Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it—who'd believe him if he did?'" Wow, he really needed a descent PR man. 

                "While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun," Jude read on, rolling her eyes at the childishly naïve description the professional reporter used to describe the Muggle weapon. "The magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse."

                Jude flipped through the paper impatiently looking for a follow up to the article. But there was none. Frustrated, she tossed the paper on the table in front of her and glared across the sunny street. It was about ten o'clock in the morning, she guessed. If she wanted to know more about this man and his crime, she wasn't going to find it in that paper. She needed to research. 

                Getting up from the table and folding her papers neatly under her arm, she walked out into the ever-crowding street. Turning her steps to the Daily Prophet, her eyes raked the passing people for the familiar mop of unruly, dark hair of the young man she was to keep an eye on. It wasn't necessary that she found him now—he would be safe here, especially in the daylight. But as she hurried passed 'Quality Quidditch Supply,' her eyes were drawn to the very figure she expected not to find. He was staring at a racing broom, oblivious to her presence. That was good—she didn't want him knowing that she was nearby. He looked fine, blissfully ignorant of the situation he was in. 

                She turned away and walked toward the Daily Prophet headquarters. 

***

                It wasn't a difficult task for a practiced liar like Jude to talk her way into the archives of the most prestigious wizard paper in Great Britain. Contrary to popular belief, those with imagination make the poorest of liars. It was precisely Jude's lack of imagination that gave her lies such wide-eyed and believable conviction. The receptionist directed her to the basement with minimal hassle. 

                Poking through the files of ages past, she finally found the year of her interest. 1981. 

                "The supposed massacre had to have happened after Halloween—and the defeat of Voldemort," she mused aloud as she ran a finger down the files. "Bingo." She finally found the article she was looking for. Nimble fingers extracted the paper from the stack eagerly. She opened the pages, fanning them quickly until a picture caught her eye. It was the same man, Black, but twelve years younger than the man on the front page of today's paper, and clean cut—almost handsome. 

                "Knock it off, Jude, this man's a psycho," she mentally berated herself. 

                But that picture, it nagged at a memory—even more so than the other deranged post-Azkaban picture. She'd definitely seen this man somewhere before. The thought tickled at the back of her mind and it was frustrating, grating on her last nerve. 

                This paper turned out to be the jackpot—the answer to her every question. The one wizard among the many Muggles killed in Black's massacre was Peter Pettigrew. Jude was astounded. Pettigrew was the exact description heaped upon Black back at the Leaky Cauldron. He was a staunch supporter—or sniveling servant, it was all the same—of Voldemort. But he was killed that day by Black, and lauded as a hero. So no one would ever know Peter's true loyalties? Did anyone ever suspect Peter of being the rat Jude knew and hated? Not much of the body was left to condemn him—how convenient, Jude thought. A finger was sent home to his mother. Gruesome and totally suspicious; no wonder the media had a field day with this stuff.

                But here was the kicker. As she read further on, the article revealed even crazier facts. Black and Pettigrew knew each other—not mere acquaintances, either, but close friends at Hogwarts. Jude shook her head in disbelief and turned the yellowed newsprint. And there, staring back at her was the wedding photo Jude had seen earlier that day in the paper. She dropped the paper on her lap in startled disbelief. She knew where she'd seen him before.

                That night—the very one she saw over and over in her dreams—he was there. He was the dark-haired man that had questioned her and demanded to see Harry. The article went on to say that both had been friends with the recently murdered James Potter. This made no sense. There was something she was missing here. 

                She reviewed the facts in her head. Pettigrew's loyalties were certain—she had firsthand knowledge of that fact. Black's were questionable, but because Jude had never heard his name mentioned in connection with Voldemort, she guessed he was not on the same side as Peter in any case. The two had once been close with James. On the night that James had been murdered, Black showed up. He could have been a possible source of information for Peter and Voldemort regarding the Potters, but that was only a guess at this point. Finally, Black killed Pettigrew in the middle of a crowded street. 

                Jude pulled herself up off of the cold, damp floor. She began to slip the paper back into its slot in the file then paused. It could be useful to keep this. She folded the paper and added it to her collection tucked under her arm before heading to the door. 

***

                The days marched on at a slow pace. There was plenty of time to commit the articles from the papers to memory, but the true story still eluded her. Something didn't add up but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what was bothering her. She'd listened intently to every rumor she stumbled upon in the crowded wizard market, but after a while, they became unoriginal and lacking in new details. There was, surprisingly, even less rumor flying about on the infamous street dealing in Dark Arts paraphernalia—Knockturn Alley. This confirmed her suspicion that Black was not affiliated with that kind. And Black had not been sighted as of yet. 

                Harry was becoming as boring as those stale rumors. His routine varied little—gaping at the racing broom in the shop window, and talking to kids he recognized from school as they made their yearly pilgrimage to buy supplies before the start of term. As far as she could tell, he'd not noticed her presence at all. But that was no failure on his part—she was very good at not being seen if she wished. 

                On the last day before the train left King's Cross Station for Hogwarts, Jude followed Harry through the streets as usual. Then she heard a familiar voice call his name from across the street. Her eyes raked the shops in that direction, picking out the red head of Harry's friend, Ron, with little difficulty. Watching as he hurried over to where he sat with their mutual friend, the bushy-haired and studious girl, Jude followed after a pause. She didn't want to eaves drop, but she was reluctant to let Harry be too far away from her careful watch. 

                From several feet away, Jude could hear Ron's exasperated voice above the din of the crowd. "What are you doing Muggle Studies for?" he screeched at his friend as she tutted and folded her arms, ignoring him. He reminded Jude a lot of Charlie. "You're Muggle-born! Your mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all about Muggles!"

                "But it'll be fascinating to study them from the wizarding point of view," the girl said earnestly, pulling her books protectively toward her. 

                "Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?" Harry asked while Ron sniggered. But Hermione ignored them. Jude admired the girl for her ambition—and the fact that she didn't reach across the table and smack the two boys' heads together, cartoon-style.  

                "I've still got ten Galleons," the girl said, looking into her purse. "It's my birthday in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early birthday present."

                Jude twisted her stiff neck as she tried not to listen to the kids while still keeping her eye on Harry. It wasn't working. And the conversation was very boring. 

                "How about a nice book?" Ron scoffed. 

                "No. I don't think so," Hermione said composedly. "I really want an owl. I mean, Harry's got Hedwig and you've got Errol…"

                "I haven't," said Ron. "Errol's a family owl. All I've got is Scabbers." Ron pulled a rat out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. Jude narrowed her eyes. You're cracking up, she thought. It looked like Peter. But so did every other rat she'd seen. No, it couldn't be him—he was killed twelve years ago, the articles said so. 

                "And I want to get him checked over. I don't think Egypt agreed with him." He poked at the rat that did indeed look sickly to Jude's eyes. 

                "There's a magical creature shop just over there," said Harry. "You could see if they've got anything for Scabbers, and Hermione can get her owl."

                Jude stood, leaning against the wall of the shop where the kids sat, frowning in deep thought as they paid for their ice cream. A plan had begun to form in her mind. A plan that might be just what she was looking for. She'd thought for days of a way that she could look after Harry without being noticed by anyone. She hurried in the direction of the magical creatures shop Harry had pointed out, wanting to reach it before they did. 

                Entering the store, she felt caged in—there wasn't much room inside with animals in pens lining every wall of the tiny shop. She immediately approached the shopkeeper, a witch who was fiddling with a pair of purple toads on the counter. 

                "Excuse me, I don't want to bother you, but I need your help." Jude thought quickly of a story to feed the lady, but settled instead on telling her the truth. I mean, what was more compelling than helping to aid in the capture of the infamous Sirius Black?

                "A girl with bushy brown hair will be coming through this door at any moment with two friends, intending to buy an owl from you." The woman was looking at Jude as if indulging the ravings of a lunatic. "I need you to sell her a cat instead." 

                "A cat?" the woman asked, raising her eyebrows. 

                "Yes, but not just any cat. And you can't push this on her, let her think this is her decision alone—she's quite smart." The woman shook her head in confusion. "I need you to do this for me because…" Here goes nothing, Jude thought. "I am on the trail of Sirius Black, the escaped convict, and I must follow up a lead. I believe, with your help, we may have him back in custody very soon." 

                "Really?" The woman was wide-eyed and staring at Jude with astonishment. "This is serious, then."

                "Quite," Jude replied impatiently, looking over her shoulder at the door. The three were nowhere in sight. Yet.

                "And where is the cat I am supposed to sell this young lady?" the woman questioned Jude, becoming skeptical. 

                Jude sighed and bent down to unlace her worn trainers. The lady at the counter was frowning in confusion as Jude took off her shoes and socks, tossing them, along with her collection of newspapers, into the waste bin at the counter's edge. Shoes always got in the way when she transformed. And even though those were her favorite trainers, she was giving them up for a good cause. 

                "I hope this all works," she muttered before pouncing onto the counter, now a large, orange cat. The chances of this plan going wrong began to mount in Jude's head. She tried to shake them, tried to force confidence in herself, but she always came back to the thought that if the Ministry found out about her hidden ability to transform at will, she could easily be Black's next cellmate. 

                The old woman clapped a hand to her chest, startled. Collecting herself, she finally consented to the scheme, breathing astonishment. "Alright, if it'll help put that madman back in Azkaban, although this is quite an unorthodox procedure, even for the Ministry…"

                Jude leapt nimbly onto the stacks of cages lining the wall just as the door opened, admitting the three friends. Jude watched as Ron questioned the witch about his pet rat, plopping the rodent onto the counter. Jude would have liked another look at the rat, just to be on the safe side, but Ron was blocking her view. Anyway, her large, gray cat-eyes were following Hermione as she inspected the various pets for sale. 

                Jude had been roughly eight years old when she'd attempted the complex and dangerous magic that gave her this form. The spell was performed under the eye of her mentor, Lord Voldemort. As his most trusted spy, an Animagus form was invaluable to her. After the success of the experiment, she'd quickly become his top informant, which he'd lost no time in putting to work as a spy. Her job, however, was not to watch those outside, but inside the ranks. She was kind of Internal Affairs agent for Voldemort—his only inside agent. This led to her rapid unpopularity within the circle of his followers as well as without. She'd never mentioned this ability to anyone after Voldemort's defeat and had never used it since that time. 

                The transformation, although very good for a person of her age, was not perfect. The cat's face was squashed, legs bowed…and it was the wrong sex. Jude had been mortified by the many flaws, but quickly found that it was inconsequential. There was also another glitch—she hated cats. She'd never been fond of them as a young girl, but the animosity shared between Pettigrew and herself almost from the first meeting, cemented her loathing for rats. So it only followed that the form her subconscious chose was a rat's natural enemy—a cat. 

                Jude paced atop the cages, watching the scene below. The witch was questioning Ron about the rat. One question in particular caused Jude to perk her ears to hear more intently. 

                "How old is this rat?"

                "Dunno," was Ron's answer. Jude was being paranoid, but she couldn't help it. She had a phobia of letting things slip her notice ever since she'd given Quirrell the benefit of the doubt. If she was paranoid, it was for good reason. 

                "What powers does he have?" 

                "Er…" Ron stammered. Jude looked closer, begging Ron silently to move. She could jump down there, but she wanted to make a favorable impression, right? And scaring the wits out of the kids was not a good idea. 

                "He's been through the mill, this one."

                "He was like that when Percy gave him to me," said Ron defensively.

                "An ordinary common or garden rat like this can't be expected to live longer than three years or so," said the witch. Jude thought that was curious—the rat looked much older as she could see now that Ron had budged over. Jude continued to stare at the rat on the counter as the sales witch tried to sell the boy a new rat. Finally, she simply handed him a bottle of red liquid and gave a few instructions. Jude racked her brain for the fact from the newspaper that was niggling at the back of her mind. Then, suddenly, as if lightning hit her, it came. 

                She leapt from her perch on the highest cage, aiming for the rat and landing, instead, ungracefully, on Ron's head. 

                "Ouch!" He bellowed, but Jude paid no heed. She was furiously scrambling for the rat—which was missing a finger. 

                She didn't know what to do. Wanting desperately to claw the life out of the miserable rodent, but holding back because he could lead her to Black, she was conflicted. He was the key to unraveling this whole mystery—there, within her grasp. Peter was alive. The plot had thickened.

                "No! Crookshanks, no!" The saleswoman yelled at her. 

                Through her rage, Jude recoiled at the name. It was hideous—who would ever name a pet that? This woman was going to bungle the whole deal—if she hadn't already done that herself by landing on Ron's head and trying to eat his pet alive. The witch was clutching the rat in an attempt to protect it, but it wiggled from her fingers and raced for the door. Ron and Harry raced after it. Peter was gone. 

                She debated whether she should transform this minute and go after him, but thought better of it. If all else failed, she would take that route. This may still work and if it didn't, she knew where to find the rat—she only hoped he didn't recognize her as she'd recognized him. 

                To Jude's satisfaction, the shopkeeper made her sale—Hermione was enraptured with the cat. The girl had odd tastes, Jude thought, trying to allay some of the guilt she felt from duping the poor girl. She tricked a twelve-year old, who thought she was buying a loving pet for her birthday, into buying a twenty-two-year old witch who was using her for a cover. Well, there goes another jewel on my crown, Jude thought as Hermione hugged her close and exited the store. 

                "You bought that monster?" said Ron, as he caught sight of his friend with the large, ginger cat folded in her arms. 

                "He's gorgeous, isn't he?" said Hermione, glowing. Jude was almost flattered. Harry looked distastefully at the cat. 

                "Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!" said Ron. Jude felt a little embarrassed at that—it had been quite a long time since she'd been a cat and it was like learning all over again. 

                "He didn't mean to, did you, Crookshanks?" said Hermione. 

                "And what about Scabbers?" said Ron, pointing at the lump in his chest pocket. 

                "Just give me time," Jude thought. 

                "He needs rest and relaxation! How's he going to get it with that thing around?" Ron continued shouting his protests. 

                "That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic," said Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into Ron's hand. "And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours, what's the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch said he'd been in there for ages; no one wanted him."

                "I wonder why," said Ron sarcastically as the group set off toward the Leaky Cauldron. 

                Jude breathed heavily, fighting the girl's vice grip around her middle. She hated being a cat, but she'd suck it up for this—as long as the girl didn't try to dress her up or anything weird like that. Things seemed to be going fine—hell, things were better than she'd planned. And that usually never happened. She'd have this big damn puzzle figured out in record time. 


	23. Silence of the Lambs

 Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowlilng and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue is from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_, and is the property of J. K. Rowling. _The Silence of the Lambs_ is the property of Thomas Harris, and was made into a movie in 1990, directed by Johnathan Demme.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Silence of the Lambs

_'Say what you see_

When you close your eyes and glide 

_Circumvent the tide_

_Sheds of himself_

_That tells us what he knows_

_And a piece of him will stay_

_When the rest of him goes…'_

Incubus, 'Divided' 

                Trying to keep the urge to fight and spit in check while the girl, Hermione, tried to stuff her into a basket was an uphill battle. Jude felt her cat's instincts taking over more and more as one human tendency after another went out of the window. Thankfully, she could still think like herself, or this would have all been a moot point. And luckily, she didn't scratch the girl too badly as the last shove found her locked in a cage of cheap, faux wicker. Jude was ashamed to admit it, but she was a bit claustrophobic. She lessened her hissing as the girl promised to let her out on the train, Ron protesting the entire time. 

                She was loaded into the Ministry car like luggage, heaped on piles of trunks and bags next to a white owl that stared haughtily down her beak at the ginger cat. She would be glad when this was all over and she would be free to prowl the halls of the school and the grounds and the forest looking for clues about Black. This was what she was good at and she would have made a fair Auror, had it not been for her record. But she didn't regret the discrimination—the Ministry was rotten to the core and she never would have been happy in that corrupt institution. 

                The cars bumped along until they reached King's Cross Station in record time. Jude breathed a sigh of relief as the drivers unloaded the bags—one step closer to freedom from this bloody cage. Stacked on a trolley and jostling through the crowds of commuters at the station was just as bad as the trunk of a car. Then through the barrier where the scarlet engine stood glistening under the white lights of the station. Jude forced her heart to slow, but couldn't help breathing rapidly. She tried to ignore it, but it seemed as if her cage, her prison, was actually shrinking.

                A porter offered to take the basket onto the train for Hermione, but was refused. She boarded the train with Harry, Hedwig in hand, and they placed their pets in the luggage rack of an empty compartment. The kids turned and left. She was on the train, but still no closer to freedom. She bristled, suppressing rage and mounting anxiety. The haughty, superior gaze of the insufferable bird never left her. Was it her imagination, or was Harry's owl laughing at her? She hissed and the bird turned lazily in the other direction. Jude stared out the window, tail lashing the sides of the basket irritably, watching as the kids said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. 

                Her impatience was growing by the minute. The cage was flimsy—she could easily have it open in a few seconds. As she was contemplating the best way to make her escape, the door opened, distracting her attention from the feeble lock on the basket. A man walked into the compartment, surveyed the area then took a seat opposite the luggage rack where she crouched in the basket. She watched as the man rested his head against the wall and promptly fell asleep. 

                Jude was immediately interested. Whoever this person was, she bet they had quite a story to tell. He definitely looked as if he'd been through the mill—his light brown hair was flecked with gray, even though he looked no older than thirty or so. His face bore a weary sorrow that added age to his young features. His robes were shabby and worn—Fortune had probably never called him friend. Still, despite his strange appearance, Jude felt as if she knew this man—she'd definitely seen him somewhere before. 

                Shaking her fuzzy, ginger head she thought ruefully that that was something she'd been saying quite often. "I've seen him somewhere before." But that didn't stop a memory form trying to push forward through all the things occupying Jude's mind for the past week. She fought to find that memory, ignoring the close confines of the cage as best as she could, focusing on the man's ill and exhausted face. But all hope of finding that memory was lost—at least for the moment—when the door of the quiet cabin was flung open to admit Harry, Ron and Hermione. They ceased their urgent conversation instantly, realizing that this cabin was occupied. 

                Looking the odd stranger over, Ron hissed the question on everyone's mind, including Jude's. "Who do you reckon he is?" 

                "Professor R. J. Lupin," whispered Hermione at once, taking a seat opposite from Harry, next to the door. 

                "How d'you know that?" Ron mocked. Jude listened intently, her cat ears perked up to pick up the quiet conversation. 

                "It's on his case," she replied, pointing at the luggage rack over the man's head. Jude looked across the cabin at the battered case in the opposite rack from her. The name _Professor R. J. Lupin_ was stamped across one corner in peeling letters. Jude was impressed—Hermione was quite a keen observer. But she kicked herself for not having noticed it before the girl. If she had only been ten years older, Hermione could have given Jude some decent competition in school. 

                "Wonder what he teaches?" Ron said, leaning over to get a closer look at the pallid professor. 

                "That's obvious," whispered Hermione. Jude would have laughed, if cats could laugh—this girl loved having the answers to everything. "There's only one vacancy, isn't there? Defense Against the Dark Arts." 

                Jude looked curiously at the sleeping professor, then back at Hermione. She knew what had happened to the first Defense teacher, but who was the second? And what the hell happened to him?

                "Well, I hope he's up to it," Ron said, shaking his head doubtfully. "He looks like one good hex would finish him off, doesn't he? Anyway…" He turned to Harry. "What were you going to tell us?" 

                Jude watched as Harry struggled to find the words to express what he wished to relate to his friends. He kept glancing over at the man by the window. If he was afraid of waking him up, it was a needless fear—Jude could see from her perch that he was deaf to any noise in the cabin. She settled as comfortably as she could in the shrinking basket, listening to Harry as intently as both of his friends. 

                "Well, I overheard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talking last night," Harry began tentatively, but soon warmed to his subject. His audience was rapt. "They were talking about Black and Mr. Weasley was telling Mrs. Weasley that there was something about him that I needed to know. But no one wanted to tell me what it was. So I listened some more." Harry took a deep breath before pressing on. "Mr. Weasley said that Black broke out of Azkaban because…because he's looking for me." 

                So he knew. Ron and Hermione were both staring at him, wide-eyed at his pronouncement. Hermione had her hands over her mouth, and finally lowered them to say, "Sirius Black escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry…you'll have to be really, really careful. Don't go looking for trouble, Harry—" 

                "I don't go looking for trouble," Harry protested. "Trouble usually finds me." 

                Jude looked skeptically over the kids below her. Yeah, trouble did find Harry Potter easily enough, but it's not as if he tried too hard to stay out of its way. He seemed to be the type of kid that liked being in the thick of things—not for the attention, but simply to prove himself. And for the past two years, he seemed to be at the center of every mess—she reminded herself to find out about what happened at Hogwarts the previous year. She was curious about the Chamber being opened, and she'd heard something of Harry's involvement in it all. Truly a Gryffindor—she shook her head at his foolishness, hoping that he'd learned from the last two years. She didn't want to spend her time following him around, keeping him out of sticky situations. But, she was relieved to notice that he seemed to grasp the seriousness of his situation. 

                "How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a nutter who wants to kill him?" Ron said, a little shakily. "No one knows how he got out of Azkaban," Ron continued uncomfortably. He and Hermione seemed more frightened than Harry. "No one's ever done it before. And he was a top-security prisoner too."

                "But they'll catch him, won't they?" said Hermione earnestly. "I mean, they've got all the Muggles looking out for him too…" 

                "What's that noise?" said Ron suddenly.

                There was a high-pitched squealing from the luggage rack next to her basket

                "I think it's coming from your trunk," Ron said. Jude saw Harry climb up and extract the loud and offensive object from the trunk next to her.  She looked mutinous as Harry disappeared from her sight with the thing. It was earsplitting. She became impatient with the conversation about the Sneakoscope the kids were examining below her. 

                She resumed spitting and clawing at the opening of the basket until, finally, she heard Ron tell Harry to put it back in the trunk. "Or it'll wake him up." He nodded toward Professor Lupin, who, Jude noticed was still asleep. To an insomniac, that deep of a sleep was foreign and unnatural. Was he still breathing? Jude looked skeptical, but the professor remained oblivious as the conversation changed topic and the kids began an animated discussion of Hogsmeade. 

                "In _Sites of Historical Sorcery_ it says the inn was the headquarters for the 1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack's supposed to be the most severely haunted building in Britain…" Hermione, reciting like an encyclopedia, was studiously ignored by her companions as they continued to discuss the merits of Honeydukes. 

                Jude had rarely gone to Hogsmeade with the other students when she'd been in school. There were too many opportunities to get into serious trouble there. She remembered one instance where Sabine and a gaggle of other boys and girls had dared her to go into the Shrieking Shack and bring an object back to prove that she'd accomplished the task. The building was dilapidated and in a severe state of decay, but it was quiet and there was no evidence that it was haunted. The only danger posed by this house was the possibility of the roof falling in on you. And, as any stupid kid would do, she took up the dare haughtily. 

She should have known that it was a setup when the astonished group ran back down the road as she kicked in a boarded up window and crawled into the dusty and dark rooms beyond. She stood in a room that must have been a tidy parlor at one time, but now it was a musty graveyard for broken furniture and spiders. Brushing aside the cobwebs, she advanced on the door, which stood ajar on broken hinges. She smirked as the November wind shook the building roughly, howling through the cracks in the boards. "There are your bloody ghosts, Marah," she spat ruthlessly as she climbed the steps to the upper rooms. 

_The sun was sinking fast, she could see feeble rays through the frayed curtains and broken window panes. Dust danced in the faint light, making the room look more sad than scary to Jude. This place seemed forgotten, hidden under a hokey rumor that it was severely haunted. Forgotten, however, only after someone had busted up the joint. She was in a bedroom at the top of the stairs, which, like the rest of the house, had been trashed by either a furious animal or an out-of-control rock band. The light grew dimmer as she explored the curious corners of the room. She knew she had to go soon, but was reluctant to leave the lonely house. As she turned back at the door for one last look, she promised she would be back. There was a comforting presence here. _

_Resting her hand on the archaic handle of the door as it creaked on rusty hinges in the drafts that whistled through the house, she felt it give under the slight pressure from her fingers. It came off in her palm. She stared down at the round, metal knob in her hand and smiled. _

_"Here's your sodding proof!" She tossed the doorknob in the air and caught it deftly with the other as she turned toward the stairs to present the treasure to the skeptics waiting for her outside. _

_Crawling back out of the window, she heard the mocking laughter of children. Rounding the side of the house, she saw the students who'd fled when she entered the house. She made her way proudly over to them as they climbed the overgrown path up the hill to the house. Then she stopped, frozen in her tracks. McGonagall was staring harshly down her nose at Jude, her rectangle spectacles only made her appear more severe. _

_"Miss Elliot, explain yourself," McGonagall demanded in a clipped tone. The kids around the professor dissolved into mocking laughter. _

_"I was conducting an experiment," Jude began importantly. "This building is not really haunted. We are all being duped by the media—they would have us believe that this place is dangerous. It's probably a cover for some elicit operation," Jude said seriously, narrowing her eyes in suspicion._

_"That is enough, Miss Elliot!" The professor raised her scolding voice above the din of the impertinent laughter. "Detention for a week with Mr. Filch and twenty points from Slytherin! This place is dangerous, ghosts or none. I don't want to see you around this place again, Miss Elliot. Do I make myself clear?"_

_Jude nodded. As the professor forcefully led her away from the building, she looked back. She would have to abandon her promise to return. That lonely house would remain forgotten, and she would never explore its sorrowful secrets again. She shoved the doorknob into her pocket. They never wanted proof and she was an idiot for not seeing through the scam. But this round piece of metal was hers for the keeping. _

Jude smiled at the memory. Professor Snape was irate that she'd lost more points for her house, but it was soon forgotten. Detention with Filch was horrible, but she was used to it by then. And, as she'd discovered the night she'd trashed her room at the Abbey the night Rhys died, she still had the doorknob. 

"Ron!" Hermione's voice pulled her from her remembrances. "I don't think Harry should be sneaking out of school with Black on the loose…"

"Yeah, I expect that's what McGonagall will say when I ask for permission," said Harry bitterly. 

So he didn't have permission to go to Hogsmeade? That was a shame, Jude thought, but it wasn't that big of a tragedy. It was never as grand as the rumors from the older kids made it sound. 

"But if we're with him," said Ron spiritedly to Hermione, "Black wouldn't dare—"

Jude was amused. Ron thought that he could stand up to Black? Jude knew little fact about the dangerous convict, but she was even doubting _her_ ability if a face-to-face confrontation with Black became necessary. 

"Oh, Ron, don't talk rubbish," snapped Hermione, "Black's already murdered a whole bunch of people in the middle of a crowded street. Do you really think he's going to worry about attacking Harry just because we're there?" Jude was thankful to see that Hermione was about to let her out of her prison. 

"Don't let that thing out!" Ron said, but it was too late.

Jude, or Crookshanks, jumped lightly from the basket, stretched and yawned. It was infinitely merciful of the girl to release her, she was about to go mad. She sprang onto Ron's knees. She hadn't seen Ron's pet rat yet on the train and feared that he'd recognized her and split. That would be disastrous, but Jude was satisfied to see a lump in the top pocket of Ron's shirt tremble before the boy shoved her, a little rougher than was necessary, off his lap. 

"Get out of here!" Ron shouted angrily as he pushed her away. This was truly a thankless job—the boy had Voldemort's sniveling servant masquerading as a rat in his pocket and he was mad that she was trying to rid him of such a parasite. Oh, well, she thought as she took a seat that was empty and stared at Ron, eyes on his top pocket. She would bide her time with this—at least it was obvious that Peter hadn't recognized her. Right now, she held all the cards and it felt good. 

The conversation became boring again and Jude's attention was divided between the lump in Ron's pocket and the suspicious man sleeping only a short distance from her. The name on the battered case above his name was even familiar—she'd read those very same letters somewhere. Read…that was it! In the paper—he was the fifth person in the picture, and the only person she didn't recognize. So he was connected to this somehow? He was probably asked to teach at Hogwarts by Dumbledore as an extra precaution against Black. All the men in the picture looked chummy enough to Jude, so what happened? Who betrayed whom? She was sure that this was the key to this crazy puzzle she agreed to solve and she was impatient to know everything. She would find out that story soon enough and she knew just who to ask about all of this. 

After another hour or so—Jude could no longer tell time by looking at the sun because angry clouds and relentless rain had stolen it from all view—the elderly witch with the candy cart came by. She watched, slightly amused, as the children debated whether or not to wake the sleeping professor, then argue the question of whether or not he was dead. Jude stretched and turned her eyes back to Ron's pocket as the kids ate candy and talked more on the subjects they'd already canvassed. Jude fought the urge to doze, feeling uneasy about something, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She shrugged it off as merely paranoia, but she was determined to stay alert nonetheless. 

The next diversion came in the form of a blonde boy book-ended by a pair of goons who looked created to simply do his bidding. Jude picked her head up off her paws for the first time in forty minutes—it was Draco Malfoy. This could be interesting, Jude thought, having heard of their infamous relationship. Malfoy was leaning elegantly against the door, a sneer on his pale face. 

"Well, look who it is," said Malfoy in his usual lazy drawl, which reminded Jude eerily of his father, a man she did not remember fondly. "Potty and the Weasel."

Jude shook her head, unimpressed. That was truly pathetic. 

Crabbe and Goyle, his two trollish thugs chuckled. 

"I heard you father finally got his hands on some gold this summer, Weasley," said Malfoy. "Did your mother die of shock?" 

It was a low blow, and Jude was surprised to see Ron react to the obvious bating, standing up so quickly that he knocked the prison-cell basket to the floor, causing the professor sleeping nearby to rustle. Boys. 

"Who's that?" said Malfoy, taking an automatic step backward as he spotted Lupin. His snide, calm façade faltered for once. So he didn't want to pick a fight in front of a teacher, Jude couldn't blame him. But he lost points for cowering back into the doorway at the sight of an adult. She shook her head—this little boy had a lot to learn. Intimidation took more than just scary words. 

"New teacher," said Harry, who also got to his feet, placing a restraining hand on Ron's shoulder. "What were you saying, Malfoy?" Harry said coolly. 

Well done, Jude conceded. Victory was obviously rewarded to the dark-haired boy as the blonde muttered resentfully to his goons and disappeared through the door. Harry sat down, along with Ron, looking pleased with having diverted a possible catastrophe. But to Jude's eyes, he appeared to enjoy the defeat a little—hey, it was his right to revel in the glory of having shot down a rival. This was not a problem in and of itself, but Jude could tell that he was someone who was used to winning, it was something that came easily to him. And because Jude understood this, she understood Malfoy's jealousy and loathing for the kid. 

Settling back into a comfortable position, Jude stared out the window as Hermione scolded Ron for some rash comment. The rain thickened, coating the windows in a glistening sheet of water that blurred the rapidly passing landscape. The sky passed from a pearly, gunmetal gray to inky black and lanterns flickered to life throughout the train. The train rattled and rocked back and forth in the pounding rain and buffeting winds. Lightning periodically illuminated the landscape and thunder broke the monotonous clicking of the train on the tracks. Jude stared, unbelieving—Professor Lupin was still asleep. 

"We must be nearly there," said Ron, leaning forward to look past Professor Lupin at the black, rain-streaked window. 

No sooner had he said this than the train began to slow. Jude was relieved—the ride had been blissfully uneventful and safe. And completely boring. But it seemed that the length of the journey had been shorter than she remembered.   

"Great," said Ron, carefully stepping over the professor's outstretched legs to look out the window again. "I'm starving. I want to get to the feast…"

"We can't be there yet," said Hermione, checking her watch.

"So why are we stopping?" Ron asked exactly what Jude was wondering. Her senses were more acute as a cat, and above the whistling of the wind outside, she could hear the sound of the pistons slackening. They were stopping, but Jude agreed with Hermione that it was too early to be in Hogsmeade yet. This was not good. 

She immediately regretted having wished for excitement. She liked boring—boring was good. This was unnerving.

The train halted with a final jolt, throwing luggage from the overhead racks to the floor with a bang that sounded along the corridor as it happened simultaneously in the other compartments. Then, without warning, all of the lamps flickered and died in one instant and the whole of the train was plunged into a deep darkness. 

Jude blinked. It was always strange trying to adjust to the phosphorescent hues of night vision. Being a cat had a few advantages she was thankful for. Fighting the urge to lick herself was a pain in the ass, but being able to see in complete darkness was invaluable. The night vision reminded her of a movie she'd seen not too long ago with Rhys, where this FBI agent was playing cat and mouse with a psycho serial killer who'd tripped the lights in his twisted serial killer house and only he had night-vision goggles. It kind of freaked her out now to be able to see in the dark. But she'd rather have the advantage the killer had than to be groping around in the dark, pointing a gun at anything that made noise like the FBI agent, while the crazy man played mind games. The movie wasn't that scary, and she remembered Rhys liked that part especially. But the situation she found herself in now made it seem all too real. How helpless everyone else on this train must feel. She had to find out what was going on, but she would wait for everyone to settle down first—she didn't fancy being trampled to death by a bunch of frantic students.  

"What's going on?" she heard Ron say, watching him feel around in the dark for a way back to his seat from the window. 

"Ouch!" Jude saw Ron stumble over what he thought was just luggage. "Ron, that was my foot!" Hermione hissed into the darkness. 

She saw Harry making his way back to his seat from the door, where he'd poked his head out to see what was going on. "Do you think we've broken down?"

"Dunno…"

Jude watched as Ron got up again and stumbled over to the window again. There was a squeaking sound as he wiped the condensation off of the window to get a better look outside.

"There's something moving out there," Ron said. "I think people are coming on board." 

People? As in plural, Jude thought. It wasn't Black, then. She sighed in relief, jumping down from the seat and heading for the door. She wanted to check things out for herself, however. Just to be safe. But before she reached the door, a figure stumbled over Harry's legs and into the compartment, almost flattening Jude. She hissed and jumped back into the safety of her seat. 

"Sorry—d'you know what's going on?—ouch—sorry—" 

"Hullo, Neville," said Harry. Jude saw him feeling around for his friend, finally finding him on the floor and pulled him up by the cloak. 

"Harry? Is that you? What's happening?"

"No idea—sit down—"

The boy stumbled over to where Jude sat and if it hadn't been for a well-timed hiss, she would have been sat on. 

"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on," she heard Hermione say and saw her step toward the open door. Jude jumped down to follow her. She wanted more than anything to know what the hell was happening. But a thud and two loud squeals put Jude off track. "Who's that?"

"Who's that?" A girl standing in front of Hermione called back. 

"Ginny?"

                "Hermione?" The girl closed the door behind her. Well, there went any chance she had to explore the train and see why they had stopped—unless she wanted to risk turning back into a human and opening the door for herself.

                Jude left the floor and jumped up to perch in the luggage rack—it was getting crowded in here. And if anyone threatening came through the door, she could jump on them from here. It was as good of a plan as she could come up with—and it might work, but she would earn no points for style. 

                "What are you doing?" Hermione asked as she took her seat.

                "I was looking for Ron—" the stranger said plaintively. 

                "Come in and sit down—" Ron commanded and the girl complied, taking the nearest seat.

                "Not here!" said Harry quickly. "I'm here."

                The girl hurriedly retreated into the seat in the corner, which Jude had just recently relinquished. Neville made his presence known as the girl clambered over him to her seat, eliciting a weak "Ouch!" from him.

                "Quiet!" came a hoarse voice suddenly, causing Jude to whip her head away from the door and in the direction of the speaker. It was the professor. He was no longer asleep, but on his feet and approaching the door slowly, stepping through the piles of boxes and bags on the floor. There was a small, crackling noise from the professor's direction. Jude kept her eye on him, and saw that he'd created a handful of flames that sent a shivering light into the dark of the compartment. The light illuminated his face, which no longer looked ill and exhausted, but alert and cautious. 

                "Stay where you are," he commanded in the same hoarse tone, moving closer to the door. 

                But the door slid slowly open before the professor reached it. 

                Jude turned her lamp-like eyes, reflecting the shivering light from the ball of flames in Lupin's hand, to the door where she saw a towering figure shrouded in a black cloak. Its face was covered in the folds of its hood, but Jude knew exactly what it was. A dementor.

                The cabin was bathed with icy, still air. It turned its head slowly, taking in the presence of every person in front of it. Jude saw nothing beyond the figure—it filled the whole of her vision. She wanted to close her eyes, not to look at it, but was strangely compelled to stare at it—like a gruesome accident that you can't help but gawk at. Jude felt it—it was just as they'd said. It felt like drowning in a pool of ice and sorrow. Followers of Voldemort used to try to frighten her with stories of the dreaded guardians of Azkaban, but she only half-believed them. But she realized the truth in this moment—a harsh, frigid and blinding reality. 

                Even though her human emotions were dulled due to her feline form, she still saw them—the faces of the people she'd murdered. James was standing in front of her, astonishment chasing every other expression from his face as he watched her pronounce the words that killed him. He didn't believe that a child could be capable of such things, but this one proved him wrong. His surprised, accusing face faded finally, and Jude breathed a sigh of relief only to feel it catch in her chest. James faded only to be replaced by Rhys.

                She was sinking, falling deeper into the depths of this freezing despair. It was Rhys as he'd appeared when he'd learned who she really was—staring, wide-eyed, disbelieving, hoping that she would tell him it was all not true. It was the way he looked at her before realizing that it was glaringly real—she really was that person, a killer—and not the girl he loved more than anything else in the world. His face told her how much the deceit hurt him and how much he despised her at that moment. It was the moment before he died. And he'd died hating her. She could see it plainly in his eyes. She would be stuck in this moment forever. 

                "Harry! Harry! Are you all right?" Jude shook her head, which was as fuzzy on the inside as it was outside and as she woke up, she noticed that the lights were back on and the train was moving again. She blinked over and over again, forcing the spots that swam before her eyes to part so she could see what was happening below her. She fought to slow her breathing, but it resisted, racing instead to keep pace with her heartbeat. Staring down at the floor, battling a wave of dizziness, she saw Harry lying flat with Hermione and Ron bent over him, shaking him. The other boy was standing next to Professor Lupin, who was looking concerned. 

                "W—What?" Harry was snapping out of it. She felt horrible. She couldn't imagine what he could possibly have seen. Her cat's mind had dulled the trauma somewhat for her—she couldn't imagine facing that thing with her human feelings as Harry had. He looked sick—so did the small redhead huddled in the corner. Another Weasley? Jude thought absently as Ron and Hermione heaved Harry back onto his seat. 

                "Are you okay?" Ron asked nervously.

                "Yeah," said Harry, looking quickly toward the door. He looked like many things to Jude, but fine was not one of them. It was her fault—she was supposed to be looking out for him and she let him face a dementor—alone. "What happened? Where's that—that thing? Who screamed?" 

                Jude sank down into the shadows of the rack. So he'd heard something? It could have been anything—he had plenty of bad memories—but it never struck Jude that he'd hear something awful instead of seeing something, as she had. It was puzzling. 

                "No one screamed," said Ron, still nervous. Ginny and Neville both looked over at Harry—and both were very pale. Jude looked carefully at the boy and then at the girl. Had they seen or heard something as well? She turned back to Harry. 

                "But I heard screaming—" he insisted. Another memory of the same movie came to mind. It was the scene where the FBI agent is manipulated by an incarcerated criminal—a psychopath that just so happens to be a brilliant psychologist. He asks her why she doesn't go back to the farm she grew up on and why she ran away in the first place. She confesses that she saw her father—or was it stepfather, Jude couldn't really remember it clearly—slaughtering lambs. The screaming of the victims played over and over in the agent's head, a reason she had become the person she was—she wanted to silence the lambs. Jude knew it was a movie, but this was startlingly real—however bad Jodi Foster looked as she remembered the lambs, Harry looked worse. She couldn't guess what innocent person's screams Harry heard while drowning in the dementor's power, she had the sick feeling that she'd somehow had a hand in that person's suffering. 

                A loud snap brought her out of the miserable thoughts. Professor Lupin was breaking up a large bar of chocolate and handing it to the frightened students around him. He instructed them to eat it as he left to talk to the driver. Jude watched the scene distractedly. Her mind was a muddled mess of memories—mostly of Rhys. She cherished every remembrance of him, but now they were almost too painful to bear. She laid her head down wearily on her paws, not able to move an inch, she was shaking so hard. The kids discussed the events with gravity and barely suppressed excitement as soon as the teacher was out of the cabin. Jude wanted to listen, but at the same time she just wanted to stare blankly at the wall and ignore everything. 

                Professor Lupin returned and announced that they would be at Hogwarts in ten minutes. Jude was thankful for the pronouncement—she wanted off of this damned train with every fiber of her being.

                "Are you all right, Harry?" the professor asked, eyeing Harry with concern. 

                Jude turned wearily and cocked her head at these words? How did he know Harry's name? She shook her head, remembering that he was connected somehow to Harry's father. She allowed Hermione to put her back into the wicker jail without the least bit of a fuss—she was simply too damn tired to care that the walls were closing in around her. It didn't seem to matter anymore. She wanted to curl up somewhere warm and safe and disappear—but where does one hide from tormenting memories? Answer that, Miss Know-It-All, she thought ungraciously as Hermione clasped the basket shut and set it carefully on the seat next to her. She was being irrational and she knew it. All this self-pity and defeatist mentality would have to go if she was to put her mind to finding Sirius Black. As soon as she got to the castle she'd begin her investigation, and for that she needed her head on straight or Black would slip through her fingers. 


	24. Confession

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowlilng and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue is from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_, and is the property of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Confession

'Nothing is worth doing unless the consequences may be serious,' G. B. Shaw 

                The feeble rays of the morning sun penetrated the dusty and familiar halls of the old castle. The weak light of the dawn was bright enough only to cast the dimmest of shadows on the floor, yet dark enough to remain unseen if that was one's desire. A solitary ginger cat padded silently through these quiet corridors, careful to remain out of the light and shrouded in the waning darkness. It stopped frequently, looking up and down the passage before halting its progress altogether in front of a massive stone gargoyle.

                Then, as if watching a beanstalk grow captured on time elapsed film, the cat became human. What once had been a cat was now a short, young woman who continued to jerk her head left and right in a quirky, feline fashion, apparently terrified that anyone might come around a corner at any moment. But she was alone—no one was there to see her and, satisfied of this fact, she turned her full attention to the marble guardian in front of the door to the Headmaster's office. She studied the object silently for sometime, then after another quick check to see if she'd been spotted, began to speak low but rapidly to the guardian. 

                If anyone had been passing that door at that particular hour in the morning, they would have been greeted with the most curious of sights—a girl with unremarkable sandy brown hair, short but too tall to be mistaken for a student, yet too young to pass as a teacher was standing, barefoot, in front of the Headmaster's office whispering emphatically at the gargoyle who refused to budge. She hissed odd words, such as "sugar quill," "cockroach cluster," and "jelly slugs," but to no avail. The gargoyle continued to stare down on her, the cold stone eyes, impassive and immovable. The girl stomped her foot on the cold flagstone floor of the corridor then swore, wincing in pain as her bare foot connected with the hard surface. 

                Throwing her hands up in resignation, she said the last thing she could think of, the well of words in her head beginning to dry up. "Ice Mice!" she yelled a little louder than was necessary, and quailed as her voice echoed down the empty corridor. Eyes darting from right to left and then back again, she saw nothing to alarm her. The stone guardian, however, had moved over to allow entrance to the chambers beyond. It worked. 

                Quickly, before anyone became aware of her presence, she dropped back to the cold, hard floor, her four paws silent on the ground as bare feet had been only seconds earlier. The ginger cat, bottlebrush tail straight in the air, bounded up the winding steps concealed behind the menacing gargoyle. She quickly reached the top of the stairs, halting at the wooden door that barred further progress, and listened. Hearing no sounds from within the room beyond the heavy oaken door, she placed her two front paws on the door and threw her weight against it. She was large for a domestic cat, but she was a cat nonetheless and was skeptical that her weight would be significant enough to move the door on its hinges. It was even ludicrous to think that the door would not be locked or even latched, she thought but was surprised as she felt something give. The door creaked as it opened a crack, just big enough for a small animal—a cat, for example—to sneak through. 

                She trotted into the empty office, breathing the familiar air, smelling mint tea and lemon drops. Breaking into Dumbledore's office had been a snap, and she was chiding herself mentally for having been so paranoid, fearing to be found out at every corner's bend. But she had to come; she had a million questions that needed answers and they would not wait for daylight. Besides, sleep was a far off and elusive dream for her after the images conjured up before her eyes—a gift from the friendly neighborhood dementors—refused to die. It wasn't entirely the accomplishment of the dementors—they'd only made the scenes she'd seen every time she closed her eyes more startlingly and glaringly real. Oh, well, she sighed, there's no better time like the present to get on with the capture of a wanted criminal. And she needed Dumbledore's help. Feeling a pair of eyes on her as she crossed the space to the desk, she leaped lightly onto the polished and well-organized surface, and turned to face the presence, curling her bushy tail around her feet. She stared back. Fawkes, eyes alight with renewed youth, marked her every movement, but made no sign of unease at her presence. She held the stare of the phoenix insolently, knowing that she shouldn't provoke the bird into alarming someone of her presence, but couldn't help it. This bird could easily be just as superior and stuck up as Harry's infuriating owl, and she was in a particularly irreverent mood. 

                Not breaking the stare, she saw the door swing the full radius, allowing a clear view of the person behind it. Out of the corner of her feline eye, she could discern the figure of the Headmaster, a look of wary alarm melting from his face to be replaced by surprise and—recognition? She finally looked away from the haughty bird to look at Dumbledore. He was smiling. He couldn't possibly…

                She had been debating whether or not to tell her Headmaster and mentor a secret she'd held for fourteen years. It would have been difficult to tell him all of those years ago that, not only was she a child with dangerous powers and a violent past—but she'd performed a risky and illegal transformation at the age of eight. It was agony to have to tell him now. She'd kept it from everyone—teachers, students, and the Ministry. He'd been no exception—but she felt guilty for having betrayed his trust in the first place. 

                She shifted her weight from one paw to the next, her shoulders making that distinct feline movement particular to all cats. She was nervous, but there was no backing down now, she realized as the old wizard strode over to her and examined her closer. She watched as he narrowed his sparkling eyes behind the characteristic half-moon spectacles. His gaze came to rest on one of her ginger paws and a knowing smile spread across his face. 

                "Hello, Jude." It was an exclamation that was not wasted on her. She started at the sound of her name. The Headmaster's eyes twinkled in triumph and, to Jude's relief, he didn't look angry in the least. 

                The cat perched on the edge of the professor's desk became the same short, unremarkable young woman who'd spoken to the gargoyle outside. She remained sitting on the desk, swinging her bare feet several inches above the ground, and cocked her head curiously at the old man as he turned away to close the door they both had left ajar.

                "How did you know…?" Jude began, confused at the ease with which her secret had so unceremoniously been revealed to her audience. 

                Turning back toward Jude as the door snapped shut, he simply smiled and pointed to her arm—her hands were folded loosely in her lap, her silver band on one wrist caught the dim light and glinted coldly. "Animagi tend to incorporate articles such as eyeglasses…and jewelry into their animal form." He was still smiling, apparently very pleased with himself. "Imagine my surprise when I enter my office in the early hours of the morning to find the door open and a foreign cat perched atop my desk. And then, to my relief, upon closer inspection, I realize that the cat has a white—almost silver—band of fur around its left paw. I recall that a certain willful, impetuous student is rarely seen without a similar band. Very curious indeed."

                Jude huffed indignantly. "Okay, next time, I'll make things harder on you." She couldn't believe that she'd forgotten that simple everyday items on a person would be transformed along with the person, giving them distinct markings. She'd been the first in her class to point out the spectacle pattern around McGonagall's tabby's eyes. She looked down at the bracelet, shining brilliantly in the low light. She would risk anyone else guessing Dumbledore's discovery—she would never take this bracelet off again. She would be safe at least from the kids discovering anything; as far as she knew, they had not discovered her real connections to…

                "So this is your plan, my dear?" Dumbledore asked quickly, lighting a lamp before taking a seat in front of his own desk and Jude. 

                Jude looked down at her fingernails and nodded sheepishly. "It's not very good, I know. But I didn't want the students to know I was around, especially not after what happened last time…"

                Jude broke off as Dumbledore raised a hand. "I said nothing to that effect, my dear. It is an excellent plan…" his expression darkened. "However, I can't help but warn you. You do realize how risky this is?" He was looking earnestly at her, searching for some sign that she was aware of the full weight of this decision. 

                "I know…The Ministry…but no one knows except you…" She became silent once more as Dumbledore motioned.

                "You have more than the Ministry to fear in this venture, Jude." Rising from his chair, he crossed the room to a window. Jude followed him with a questioning glance as he motioned her to come as well. He pointed down the rolling hills that spread from the castle to the extent of the grounds. Jude peered, squinting in the strengthening golden rays of the dawn as they filtered through the glass and dust. There was something moving at the edge of the forest and at the gates just to the south of that. Jude gasped, horror leaving no question as to whether she was familiar with the sight she was beholding. 

                "You know what they are?" Dumbledore gave her a curious glance, as she looked stricken at the view from the window.

                She gulped and nodded. Black-hooded figures prowled the shadows at the entrances to the school. Dementors. "I was on the train…" Jude explained feebly. 

                "Then you know that even this transformation, impressive as it is, is no defense for those creatures…and they do not forgive if one tries to deceive them." Dumbledore had turned to face Jude, but her eyes were fixed on the moving forms shrouded in black below.

                "Are they here because of…" she asked, her voice a little shaky.

                "Black? Yes." His voice betrayed a bit of regret that these creatures were hunting the convict, even though he no doubt deserved the torture.

                "I have a confession to make," Jude said quickly, startling the old man. "I didn't just come up with this idea—I've had this ability since…I did it with…Voldemort's help," she choked out. "Years ago!" she added, her eyes wide, fearing he might become angry with her. "I didn't tell you," she pursued rapidly, ignoring the Headmaster, "because, I don't know! Because I was stupid and I didn't want to be different from any of the other kids, I guess." She sounded every bit as crestfallen as she looked. Her eyes remained on the rug and her dirty, shoeless feet. She couldn't look up at the professor, even though she was dying to know what he was thinking. 

                "Well, I can't say that I'm not disappointed that you kept such information from me…"

                "I never transformed at school, honest. I haven't since, well, that night…" she protested frantically. 

                "Calm down, my dear. I understand why you would have remained silent on the subject. But this is a precarious situation you are in now." He turned away, looking out of the window pensively. "You must deal with those things out there," he spat, glaring out the window at the dementors, "if you want to find Black, and frankly, I don't see how you could manage to go after him without being discovered and the Ministry being alerted…or worse." He fell ominously silent. 

                "But I do. I need to find Black—there are a few things that don't add up and…"

                The Headmaster held up a hand. "You can remain here and watch out for Harry…I dare say your disguise is perfect for that…but as for Black, I am afraid I shouldn't have asked you to become involved with him in the first place. That is something that is best left to them." He glared once more out onto the grounds, the colors becoming more vibrant as the morning grew brighter. 

                "I will continue to do my duty to Harry, but Headmaster, I must insist that I continue searching for Black. I can't say for sure now, but I think there is more to this story than anyone can guess. I've found…" Jude paused awkwardly, unsure of how much she was willing to divulge at this time and if Dumbledore would simply think she'd finally cracked up. "I've found some new information…and I think Black might be innocent, of some things." She finished boldly, her lips pressed tightly together in a fervently determined expression.

                The Headmaster stared at her in concealed astonishment. He evidently wanted to hear more evidence as to why Jude thought this murderer was innocent. Jude remained resolute and determined to carry her point. But she wouldn't tell the professor about Peter—not until she was absolutely sure. And she wouldn't be certain of that until she'd caught the little bugger and made him talk. Soon, she promised herself mentally. 

                "I would be very interested in hearing why you think so." He was looking gravely at her, and suddenly she felt ten years old again, standing in front of the Headmaster's desk promising that she would cause no trouble for him if he allowed her to attend Hogwarts and not to send her to Azkaban. 

                "Well, Black was supposed to be the heir apparent to Voldemort, according to the Daily Prophet anyway. They said that he was in the thick of things concerning Voldemort." Dumbledore nodded. 

                "Yes, but he operated all in secret and no one really knows how close he was to Voldemort himself—it is all conjecture. But it is valid that he was a spy for His side."

                Jude listened as Dumbledore affirmed the allegations. "But then, isn't it curious that I've never heard of him before?"

                The Headmaster stared at his former pupil, deep in thought. "Well, I suppose that is odd, but not completely unlikely that the name of one of his informants had never reached you."

                Jude smiled wryly. "Did I ever mention what _exactly_ my duties to Voldemort entailed?"

                "No," the Headmaster returned her smile and sat behind his desk. "Explain."

                "_I was a spy." She raised her eyebrows as she revealed this bit of information. "That is why I am an Animagus. I was used to keep tabs on His followers—to root out the unfaithful and to make sure His informants weren't double agents."_

                "That sounds like quite the dangerous job to hand to an eight-year-old." Dumbledore looked a bit skeptical.

                Jude frowned and shook her head. "Not really. My task was only to collect information—never to act on it. And most of the time, the people I spied on didn't even know I was there. I brought Voldemort the evidence and He acted…," she swallowed hard, "accordingly."

                She leaned casually against the corner of his desk. "Now do you think it's odd that I've never heard his name?"

                The Headmaster nodded judiciously. He sighed and looked out the window, falling back into his chair. "And you are certain you want to go through with this?"

                She followed his eyes as they gazed out of the window. The looming figures of the milling dementors claimed her attention immediately. She shuddered involuntarily then tore her eyes away from the window. "Yes." Her voice was hard and immovable with determination. 

                "And do you remember what you saw, what you felt when the dementors were near on the train? Do you think you can relive that every time you leave the castle grounds?" Dumbledore removed his stare from the window and looked at Jude again, hoping to see that stubborn determination crumble.

                She closed her eyes tightly, trying not to remember what she saw—how real it all was—last night on the train. Opening her eyes once more, the fear was replaced with a steely, disconcerting sort of disassociation. If she wanted to, she could chose not to feel—it was all in her mind.

                "I can," her voice was brutally sharp in her own ears, but she was determined to do this with or without Dumbledore's go-ahead. 

                The Headmaster sighed reluctantly and said, "Be careful, Jude. Avoid the dementors at all costs. Animal feelings may not be as complex as human emotion, but it will still draw the loathsome creatures. Don't do anything…"

                "Foolish?" she finished for the professor who smiled warily. "Don't worry, Headmaster. I haven't done anything foolish in at least six weeks." She smiled back at the Headmaster before her eyes were drawn up to a shelf above his head. An object she'd examined through its glass case frequently during visits to this office caught her eye. It was a magnificent sword. But it was different from how she'd remembered it—gleaming gold with sparkling rubies encrusted on the hilt. Now it seemed dull, sullied and spotted—as if it had been submersed in some corrosive liquid. 

                "Sir!" she exclaimed. "What happened to your sword? It looks like…"

                "Like basilisk blood?" he said, sounding pleased that she'd noticed such a minute detail. She was, indeed, an excellent observer. "It has, in fact, killed a basilisk. Just this past year, Harry Potter used it to finish off the monster from the infamous Chamber of Secrets."

                "A basilisk? So that was the big deal?" Jude said, sounding more offhand than she meant to sound. Harry Potter apparently couldn't finish a school year without some big heroic show to end it all. "Do I even want to know what that was all about?"

                "You haven't heard?" the Headmaster asked, sounding astonished. 

                "The Minister said something vaguely on the subject. He tried to pin whatever the hell happened on me, even though I hadn't the foggiest clue of what I was being accused of and he wasn't inclined to explain." Jude glanced back up at the dulled sword. "So did you find out who was behind opening the Chamber?" She couldn't help it—curiosity was an evil thing. 

                "Yes, and I'm quite surprised the Minister would have thought you were behind it. By the way, congratulations are due to you for completing your final year at Cambridge. A degree in Literature, I hear?" 

                Jude nodded and mumbled a quick word of thanks. "But who…"  
                "I see you are not to be easily deterred." The Headmaster's eyes were twinkling like an impish child who concealed a delicious secret. "The person behind the fiasco, I assumed was none other than Lucius Malfoy." 

                Had Jude been a cat at that moment, she was sure that every ginger hair would be on end. If there was one person she loathed more than sniveling Peter, it was Lucius Malfoy. "No wonder they wanted to arrest me for some invented involvement. They needed someone and couldn't very well blame it on Malfoy. Was anyone hurt?"

                "Harry, of course, nearly died, but managed to come out perfectly fine in the end. Virginia Weasley fared a little worse than Mr. Potter, but no lasting scars. And our esteemed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart, lost his memory due to a misfired curse from his own wand." The Headmaster shook his head, but whether from pity or incredulity, Jude could not tell. There was yet another Weasley? Jude thought then she remembered the redhead girl on the train who looked almost as bad as she herself felt. She could imagine what the girl might see when the dementor came close. 

                "Lockhart was the Defense teacher?" Jude looked disbelieving at the Headmaster. "What I wouldn't give to see that moron teach a class." And in an uncanny impression of the narcissistic best-selling author, she continued, "Good day, class. This is a hairbrush and this is a mirror, which are intended to be used thus."

                "I thought he had potential…" the Headmaster smiled wryly at Jude's incredulous glare. "Just not as a teacher."

                "Or in any profession that requires actual knowledge of a subject," Jude scoffed. But her words reminded her of something. Professor Lupin, the new Defense teacher, seemed more than capable of the position on the train and, indeed, by comparison, Quirrell seemed slightly incompetent and Lockhart seemed like a buffoon next to him. "And this new teacher?" Jude prompted the professor, who looked up with the expression of one possessed of infinite knowledge of a subject, but is only willing to divulge a little. 

                "He is quite capable, I can assure you. One of my most gifted students." Jude couldn't help the slightly hurt expression from showing on her face. "One of Black's closest friends." Jude crossed her arms, her face an unreadable mask. She didn't want much from the Headmaster, just assurance that she had nothing to worry about from his newest teacher. "Until Black betrayed James. You have no cause to be uneasy about him, Jude. I trust him." He rose from his chair and stood before her. 

                "Then I trust him." 

                The Headmaster beamed on her. "I wish there was something I could say to persuade you not to continue with this, my dear."

                Jude shook her head sorrowfully. She wished she could alleviate the Headmaster's unease, but she had to do this. Black may be innocent. She could not see someone carted back to that hell he came from knowing that she could have stopped it. She hoped someone would do the same for her. And as she looked into the kind face of her mentor before her, she realized someone had done exactly that for her. "I need to do this," she said simply.

                "Then," he said with finality, "do be careful. Don't try to be heroic…"

                Jude scoffed. "Heroic? I'm a Slytherin, remember? You have nothing to worry about on that point." She gave the Headmaster an impish grin before a ginger cat slipped silently out of the office, down the steps and past the gargoyle. 


	25. When Pieces Don't Fit

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowlilng and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue is from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_, and is the property of J. K. Rowling.

Chapter Twenty-Five: When Pieces Don't Fit

'You better believe there will be times in your life 

_When you'll be feeling like a stumbling fool_

_So take it from me you'll learn more from your accidents_

_Than anything you could ever learn at school'_

_Billy Joel, 'You're Only Human'_

                A few days had passed without much excitement. Jude had made cursory sweeps of the school—hidden passages, secret chambers and all—every day without fail. It was a bit of a task to remain unnoticed with the halls full of students and Filch and Mrs. Norris poking around everywhere. But she had managed just fine, creeping around at all hours of the day and night, much to the annoyance of her new 'owner'. Hermione had tried just about everything to keep her cat in her dorm room, but Crookshanks always managed to find his way out into the common room—or worse. 

                On a few occasions, Jude had almost managed to lay hands on Peter whom Ron was guarding jealously, unaware that his pet rat was not what it seemed. Jude was anxious to get Peter to talk, knowing that he had every answer she wanted regarding the Sirius Black mystery. But the man was seldom without his boy-protector and, as a rat was very adept at hiding in cracks and crevices when he could not have sanctuary in Ron's pocket. She had been growing impatient for days, then weeks when one night—early in October, Jude reckoned—she'd been presented with the perfect opportunity to have that little chat with her old friend. Well, maybe it wasn't perfect, but she had to take every chance she was given. Hermione was sitting in the Common Room chastising Ron for suggesting that Harry sneak out of school and join them in Hogsmeade that weekend. 

                "Ron!" said Hermione. "Harry's supposed to say _in school_—,"

                "He can't be the only third year left behind," said Ron. "Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry—," he finished, turning to Harry. 

                "Yeah, I think I will," said Harry with a decided nod. This pronouncement had the effect of pulling Jude's attention away from her latest trophy of the hunt—a large spider. She had finally given into the urge to catch and kill various small creatures to live off of, deciding that it would draw less attention if she did what cats do normally, and it lessened the need for her to break her cover and sneak off to the kitchens late at night. She leapt lightly onto Hermione's lap, huge spider with legs dangling morbidly in tow, begging her with her eyes to say something rational and stop her friend from doing something reckless. McGonagall surely would refuse and Jude was well aware that Harry possessed a certain tool that would make the rules barring him from Hogsmeade obsolete. In Jude's stead, she relied on Hermione to be the voice of reason and to convince her friend not to do something so stupid. But her sudden arrival was such a distraction that Hermione seemed to have lost her will to argue. 

                "Does he have to eat that thing in front of us?" Ron said, scowling at her. Jude's worry was assuaged for the moment, melting instead into dislike for the boy in front of her. Ron had been an unforeseen obstacle in her plans to get Peter—unforeseen and impassable. He was more stubborn and suspicious than either Bill or Charlie (the only two Weasleys she knew besides him) and did a damn good job of keeping his pet out of her reach. She chewed the spider slowly as she noticed his disgust. So, he didn't like spiders, did he? Her gray eyes were fixed insolently on him as he scowled even more. 

                "Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" Hermione beamed as she affectionately ruffled her fur.

                "Just keep him over there, that's all," Ron said irritably, turning back to the star charts he and Harry were working on. "I've got Scabbers asleep in my bag."

                Jude's eyes went immediately to the bag at Ron's feet. It was now or never—he could thank her later. She waited for the right opportunity, but noticed Ron finishing up his chart. She needed to do this before he took the rat up to the safety of his room. Still staring at Ron, tail swishing with malice, she pounced on the bag. 

                "Oy!" Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks sank four sets of sharp claws deep inside it and began tearing ferociously. It wouldn't hurt Peter too badly if he happened to be skewered by a well-aimed claw—he would still be able to talk. "Get off, you stupid animal!"

                Ron tried to pull her off amid cries from Hermione not to hurt her cat, but Jude would not be denied her catch this time. She'd almost been successfully dislodged when Ron whirled the bag around his head. Scabbers had come flying out of the top and under a table against the wall. Jude sprang after him, scrabbling over the tabletop and onto the floor, chasing the terrified rat. Jude did not feel like wasting a bit of mercy on this creature—she would have him this time, no matter how. 

                "Catch that cat!" Ron yelled. 

                Another of the numerous redheaded Weasley boys sprang at her but she evaded him skillfully, still plunging headlong through the room after Peter who seemed to see her as no more of a threat than a cat—a cat that wanted him for dinner. Scabbers, to Jude's amazement, had successfully navigated twenty pairs of legs and had found shelter under an old chest of drawers that was too low to admit anything beyond her front paw. She swiped at the space furiously, refusing to admit defeat until Hermione grabbed her around the middle and heaved her away. 

                "Look at him!" Ron yelled at Hermione, holding the offensive rat by the tail. "He's skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!"

                "Fat chance, kid!" Jude fumed as she struggled in Hermione's arms. 

                "Crookshanks doesn't understand it's wrong!" said Hermione, her voice shaking. "All cats chase rats, Ron!"

                "There's something funny about that animal!" said Ron, trying to force a frantic Peter, or Scabbers, or whatever-the-hell-he-called-himself back into his shirt pocket. Jude froze. Was the boy suspicious? She would never have suspected him to catch on before the others—sure he had his qualities, but Jude doubted that perceptiveness was one of them. "It heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!"

                "Oh, what rubbish," said Hermione impatiently. "Crookshanks could _smell_ him, Ron, how else do you think—"

                "That cat's got it in for Scabbers!" Ron said, as people around him giggled. 

                "I've got it in for _Peter_! I don't give a shit about _Scabbers_!" Jude seethed silently, never taking her eyes off of Ron's shirt pocket.

                "And Scabbers was here first, _and_ he's ill!" Ron huffed and marched up to his dormitory. 

                That night had been a disaster, Jude had to admit. She'd missed her chance at Peter and she'd driven a wedge between Ron and Hermione. She'd felt a great deal of remorse that night as Hermione returned to her room, cat in tow, to fret over the fight she'd had with her friend. Jude was sure it would soon clear up, but still felt horrible over having caused such a scene. Then she mentally promised Hermione never to make a grab for the rat in front of Ron again—it caused too much suspicion to be thrown her way and Hermione suffered the backlash of her actions. No, from now on, she would have to attempt another capture on her own—alone. But Peter was seldom alone these days, she mused as she made her rounds.

                Jude hoped her wanderings would not give her away. But cats were naturally curious and independent, right? That should be a good enough cover. Besides, Jude needed to assure herself that the castle was safe before she proceeded to explore the grounds surrounding it. Four days, however, was sufficient to cover the whole of the school—every corner of which was familiar to Jude, who'd found the last passage out of the school in her fourth year—but nothing had turned up to reward her efforts. This should have been reassuring to her, but it was just the opposite. 

                Now that she was certain of the safety within, she had to turn her attention outside of the stone walls. She fought the paralyzing fear that grappled for control of her when she thought of what was out there, just roaming the grounds freely. Dementors.

                She knew her duty, however, and quickly padded down the steps and into the slanting afternoon rays of September sunlight. The coast was clear, as far as she could see and she heaved a sigh of relief. It felt good to be out of doors for a change—the thought that Peter was just out of her grasp was driving her nuts and if she could not get to him just yet, she would begin to hunt for his counterpart, Sirius Black. 

                And to do that, she needed information. Hagrid.

                She directed her steps to the small hut near the lake where the Gamekeeper was most likely to be found. Slinking behind a large Hawthorne by the front door, Jude looked around furiously for any sign that she was being watched. Where the large orange cat had disappeared only seconds before, the curious sandy haired girl appeared. 

                She walked up to the door of the modest accommodations, grateful for the small respite from feline life, and knocked. Several booming barks let her know that the hut was not entirely deserted, but Jude could not tell if Hagrid was there or not. Moments chased the next, but no answer. Looking around, she wondered where the next logical place he could be was. Her eyes flicked to the castle and back—she knew he wasn't there, she'd checked it out only thirty or so minutes before. A dark movement in the forest caught her eye and she froze, her attention fixed on the spot. She expected to see the menacing, hooded figure from the train that had made such an impression on her. Instead she saw a large, shaggy black dog skirting the edge of the forest. She was thankful that she was human and not a cat at the moment—the dog was huge and looked like it could use a meal about Crookshank's size.

                Finally, she heard movement at the back of the hut between the din of barking from within. Walking around the small house, she saw a paddock surrounding hippogriffs and…Hagrid? 

                "What's all this?" Jude asked curiously as she ambled up to the fence. She leaned over the wooden rails, resting her elbows on the rough surface and smiled up at the large man as he tended to his creatures. 

                "Hullo, Jude. Didn't 'spect to see you here." He spoke with none of his usual liveliness. Something was wrong, Jude surmised, furrowing her eyebrows. "These here," Hagrid gave a great sweep of the paddock with a massive hand, "are hippogriffs. They were for my firs' Care O' Magical Creatures class…" he continued without enthusiasm.

                "Oh, Hagrid that's wonderful. You're perfect for the job." Jude beamed, but her encouraging smile faltered when her words seemed to cause the man pain instead of pride. 

                "Don' know 'bout that anymore." He was busy tying the ropes of one hippogriff's harness to the opposite side of the paddock, away from the others. 

                "Why would you say that, Hagrid?" Jude was confused. She doubted there was another person as qualified for this job as he was and was baffled by his lack of confidence in himself. He was practically obsessed with strange and unusual (not to mention dangerous) creatures. 

                "'Cause I let a student get hurt in me firs' lesson. That's not a good start to things." Hagrid stroked the hippogriff as it rooted around for grubs in the soft earth at its feet. "Beaky here attacked Mr. Malfoy this mornin'. Don' know what got into 'im, but Beaky would never hurt anyone…unless, you know, he was insulted."

                "I wouldn't put it past Malfoy. How bad was he injured?" Jude was beginning to see the situation as none of Hagrid's fault at all, but he was less than convinced.

                "A bit of a gash, but that's 'bout it. Dumbledore said I can keep teachin', but Beaky here'll have to be reviewed by the Committee for the Disposal o' Dangerous Creatures." Hagrid looked distraught as the hippogriff in question nibbled carelessly on his catch, oblivious to his peril.

                "I'm sorry, Hagrid." Jude was as apologetic as she sounded. She knew how attached Hagrid became with the creatures he looked after. And every verdict was guilty when it came to the Committee for the Disposal of Magical Creatures. And if Malfoy was involved, she would bet that his father would bully the Committee out of any just sentiments.

                "S' not that bad. I got Harry an' Hermione an' Ron lookin' up cases fer me in the library." 

                The mention of Harry's name brought Jude back to her task. "Harry was here?"

                "Yeh jus' missed him." Hagrid eyed her a bit suspiciously. "Why do yeh ask?"

                "Don't tell me you believe those rumors?" Jude asked incredulously, her shoulders falling a bit with disappointment. She knew perfectly well that the half of the staff believed that she'd had a sinister hand in the Stone affair. Dumbledore's confidence in her loyalty only stretched so far and Jude could not really blame others for thinking her capable of treachery. She certainly wasn't above suspicion, but she thought that Hagrid at least knew her better than that. 

                "Course not!" Hagrid answered immediately, relieving Jude a bit. "I jus' didn't want to get Harry in any trouble. I know he's not supposed to be out and about with…well you know."

                "Don't worry," Jude assured Hagrid. "I'm not going to take points away from him—I'm not a teacher here you know."

                "So what are you doin' back?" he asked. "Not that it ain't good ter see yeh again, an all," he added quickly.

                "You don't have a guess?" Jude pushed off of the rail and placed her hands in her pockets waiting for his reply.

                "It don' have to do with…"

                Jude nodded seriously. "That's what I came to talk to you about. I need to know everything about him, Hagrid."

                "Well, we can' very well talk abou' this out here." He patted the hippogriff on the neck before ducking out of the paddock and leading Jude up the path to his hut. "You got quite a knack for getting' mixed up in all kind o' trouble, you know that?"

                "I know," Jude conceded wearily.

***

                "He was the Potter's Secret Keeper?" Jude shouted, astonished. Fang raised his head off of his paws sharply, surprised by the sudden outburst. 

                "Well, yeah," Hagrid confirmed, confused by her reaction. "He was James' best man an' his closest friend at school."

                It made sense that he would have had that honor. Jude didn't know why it had never occurred to her before—they'd used the Fidelius Charm—that much she knew from overhearing conversations concerning the Potters. Voldemort had been hunting them specifically for some time before and it was the logical step in keeping Him at bay. They'd invested their secret, however, in Black—not Peter, as she'd always believed. Peter had been a spy for Voldemort for a while before that Halloween that haunted Jude relentlessly. He'd been delighted that he was finally able to reveal to his master the location of his prey, and Jude had been present when he unveiled that they'd been hiding in Godric's Hollow. She remembered Peter's cloying and sniveling as he dangled his prize before his master. Peter had been their Secret Keeper, or he wouldn't have been able to divulge the secret…unless Black betrayed them as everyone had thought and told his friend what he wanted to know.

                She'd been blind—completely and utterly blind! Just because she'd never heard her Master mention the man didn't automatically prove his innocence! How arrogant she'd been to think that she'd been privy to all her Master's dealings? She was just a child at the time, after all, and there had to have been things that Voldemort was keeping from her. Black could have been one of them. 

                Or he could have been tricked by Peter. But the only reality here was that Jude had been jumping to conclusions too soon. The puzzle pieces were not fitting together—there were still gaps and some just didn't line up like they should. At the moment Jude felt unforgivably dim and useless. 

                "Not to mention Harry's godfather…" Hagrid continued.

                "What?" Jude was snatched from her reverie by the shock of the sentence.

                "Blimey, didn't you ever wonder what he was doin' at Lily an' James' that night?" Hagrid furrowed his brow at her.

                "I didn't really think about it…" she admitted. Come to think of it, why was he there on that night? Was he concerned for his friends? It certainly seemed that way when she'd first seen him, frantically digging through the rubble. But something about him had frightened her—something that was unexplainable—that told her not to give Harry over to him that night. Something in his eyes—he looked guilty.

                "To think…if you hadn't gotten to Harry…" Hagrid was shaking his head at the thought. 

                "I didn't do anything to be proud of," Jude said blandly. "It's you he has to thank, Hagrid."

                "I can't believe he could betray them like that…his best friend! And then killing little Peter Petegrew on top o' that!" 

                Jude winced. Black might have betrayed his best friend, but Hagrid had no idea how wrong he was about Peter. But she could tell no one yet that he was alive. She needed to talk to him first, but she was still formulating how to go about all of this. She needed to work out the puzzle—it wouldn't help if she took a hammer to the ill-fitting pieces. 

                "You couldn't have known about him, Hagrid…" Jude tried to allay his misery about that night but felt that she could provide little solace.

                "You didn't know anythin' abou' it did you?" Hagrid asked her abruptly.

                "No." She hoped she sounded convincing. "I just did what I was told." Flimsy, she thought. And it didn't really excuse anything she'd done that night, anyway. 

                Hagrid noticed the guilty and hurt look on Jude's face and didn't press the issue. She wasn't the target of his anger—Black was and it wouldn't do any good to attack Jude for what he did. 

                "Harry doesn't know 'bout any of this, so…" Hagrid began, but was silent as Jude held up her hand.

                "Don't worry, Hagrid. I won't tell him." She smiled ironically. "I'm trying to keep my distance from him this year, because…well…and do you think he would believe anything I told him anyhow?" 

                Hagrid nodded. 

                "Thanks for everything." Jude rose to leave. "Good luck with the case and all. I hope everything works out for your hippogriff." She smiled, hoping that he would cheer up a little. It was all right for her to be completely miserable, but it didn't suit Hagrid. She earnestly hoped he could beat the odds with the Committee. 

                "Come back if you have any more questions." He opened the door and she passed through into the fading rays of sun and hurried back to the castle. She didn't fancy the idea of being caught outside the walls of the school at night. She didn't return to feline form until she was on the front steps, Hagrid watching from the door of his hut as she crossed the grounds. In the entrance, she dropped to all fours and padded past the Great Hall, where sounds of the students drifted out of the warm and glowing room, up to the Gryffindor Common Room. She had to find Peter. Just to chat, that's all.

***

                Jude had become an increasingly antagonistic presence among the three friends. Every time she'd made an attempt to get to Peter, she'd been thwarted. With as many failed attempts under her belt as she had, she was starting to believe half-heartedly that these kids were working for the rat. She was still positive, to her relief, that Peter was oblivious to her presence and merely afraid of being the next meal of an extremely zealous cat, and therefore, hid creatively. Jude snuck into the boys' dormitory often only to find no trace of the rat. And when he was visible, it was always under the supervision of the infuriating redheaded boy. 

                Jude was beginning to despise Ron. If he wasn't swatting at her, he was badmouthing her to Hermione. Thankfully, the girl seemed to like the cat and defended her as much as possible. Well, at least someone didn't detest her presence in the common room. 

                It was Halloween—again. Jude dreaded the day every year. But this year seemed more painful than most and she chalked it up to the fact that the whole deal with Black was keeping that night ever-present on her mind. And she hated him for all he forced her to relive. She lay listlessly on the rug in front of the fire, for once preferring solitude over the abuse she received at the hand of Ron. Peter could take a number tonight—there was simply too much on her mind to deal with him right now.

                One sweep of the halls this morning had revealed no new secrets concerning Black, who'd not been spotted as of yet. Still, she would take no chances and planned to make another search of the school as soon as everyone cleared off for the feast. Maybe if all was quiet around the castle, she could sneak past the damned dementors and pop on down to the Three Broomsticks to get thoroughly pissed. She'd like to see those memories just try to tread water—well, not water, exactly, but gin and vodka. 

                She picked her head up off of the rug lazily as Harry and his friends made for the portrait hole that served as the gateway into the Gryffindor environs. She stretched languidly before slipping out through their feet, unseen. She might as well begin the search now—Peter was in Ron's shirt pocket and therefore not available for a friendly talk. The three kids took the path leading to the Great Hall, but she took the opposite route to the dungeons—familiar territory for a former Slytherin with too much time on her hands. But the corridors were cold and silent and empty, yielding no clue that the murderer had been there. She moved on to the secret passage she'd found the summer after her second year—behind a tapestry, close to the Slytherin Common Room. Filch certainly knew about this one—how else could he have caught her sneaking out after hours so many times? She doubted he was just that good. The air was still and undisturbed behind the tapestry. She sniffed the air, utilizing her advanced animal senses, but all she discerned was dust and drafts—no sign of use. 

                She soon abandoned the fruitless search of the dark, lower floors, after the dungeons, the cellar, and classrooms had yielded nothing. The ground floor held little else of interest for her and she was reluctant to remain in those halls for too long, unsure of when the festivities would end and hundreds of stampeding students would cascade into the corridors. Still, over the sounds and smells from the Great Hall, Jude caught the scent of something else—not human, but she couldn't be sure. She trotted up the steps to the next floor, the scent leading her further on. Along a corridor of classrooms, all empty and silent, she prowled, following her senses until she stopped. Looking up she was surprised to be standing in front of a statue of a humpback witch. This was the secret entrance to a tunnel she knew led to Honeyduke's in Hogsmeade. This was the last secret passage she'd found during her years here as a student. She didn't think anyone else, besides herself, knew about this passage—it required a password. Well, maybe Dumbledore knew about it, but certainly no other students know about it, and she knew Filch didn't know about it because it had served as a frequent escape route for her. And surely _he_ didn't know about it…

                No, the scent was definitely not human—it smelled like wet dog. Like Darcy when she ran about in the rain, Jude had no doubt that that was it. But that didn't make sense…a dog in the school? A dog in her secret passage? She continued down the corridor until she came to a flight of stairs. Her heart was racing as she climbed to the summit of the steps…she was headed in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room. And the scent was getting stronger.

                Gaining the landing, Jude saw a sight that made her freeze instantly, her feline instincts taking over. It was him. Sirius Black. He was glaring menacingly at the portrait of the Fat Lady in the pink, taffeta dress. He sounded angry and she could hear above his shouts the Fat Lady's refusal to let him pass.

                "I know he's in there, let me by. You don't know how big of a mistake you're making!" Black bellowed at the portrait. 

                "Not without the password!" The Fat Lady continued to deny him access to the rooms beyond. He paced in front of her angrily.

                Jude crept silently toward the scene, careful not to draw attention to herself. Black, losing his patience with the painting, raised a jagged and glimmering object that Jude recognized instantly, with wide eyes, as a knife. He brought the edge sharply downward, with a sickening ripping noise. There was a large rent in the canvass and the portrait's subject was shrieking. Two more gashes in the painting and the subject took flight through other paintings to…Jude couldn't guess. 

                Black wrapped his fingers around the unguarded frame, about to open the passage into Gryffindor Common Room, but stopped. He stood where he was, frozen, and turned toward the stairs where Jude stood, an orange cat staring fiercely back at him. She'd heard it too—voices of dozens of students returning in high spirits from a wonderful feast. 

                Jude watched as the ragged man turned and fled. She quickly and nimbly pursued him, not sure of what she could possibly do, but unwilling to let him escape all the same. He was headed down the opposite end of the corridor from which he came. But Jude knew that this floor continued around and another staircase would put him back on the floor with the humpback witch. 

                He was there now—on the same floor as his escape—but Jude was astonished to see him run toward the front entrance. Then it hit her—he didn't have a wand and therefore could not go back the way he came. The statue required an incantation with a wand to open the passage. He was going to walk out the front door. But wasn't he afraid that someone might see him? Was he that suicidal?

                But as Jude watched him creep cautiously past the Great Hall, she noticed that most of the students remained in the Hall. The students that had interrupted him in his endeavor to get into the Gryffindor Common Room must have been a few loud students who'd left the feast early. The coast was clear. 

                He tugged the massive doors open allowing the scent and sound of the pounding rain fill her senses and passed through them. She raced out beneath his feet before he shut the door. She sat on the grass at the foot of the steps and held his curious gaze for some time. Then, to her astonishment, he sank to the wet, stone steps beneath his feet—once a ragged and sinister man, now a large and shaggy black dog.


	26. A Black Night

Disclaimer: All characters associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. 

Author's Note: I hope I am staying as true to _Prisoner of Azkaban_ as possible. Forgive me if I am messing with something sacred here.

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Black Night

_'You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. _

_Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked._

_A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!_

_Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?_

_How much can you lose? How much can you win?'_

_Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go_

                She sat in the damp grass, still as a statue, staring through the rain at the huge dog on the steps above her. She would never have guessed that Sirius Black was an Animagus! Well, there was another elusive piece to the puzzle, she thought. The dog quickly bounded down the stairs, coming directly at her. She fought the urge to run, to be somewhere other than in the direct path of this creature, yet she remained still. Still, even though she reasoned that Black wouldn't eat a cat, her hair stood on end as he passed right by her, heading for the forest. 

                Jude got to her feet. She wanted to follow, to find out where he was going. But—she was reluctant to admit it—she was afraid. 

                She was afraid of Sirius Black. Maybe she had been mistaken in his innocence—he didn't seem to act as an innocent man back there when he mercilessly slashed the Fat Lady's canvass. And what was he after? Harry, no doubt. She knew now that he was armed as well, not with a wand but with a knife—although he had to have some magical ability left because he could still turn into a dog at will. Azkaban had not affected him as it should have. That made him even more of an enigma and twice as dangerous. Jude knew, however, that she could handle anything Black threw at her.

                That was not the real reason she was paralyzed, rooted to the spot where she stood. She knew what was out there, roaming the grounds of the school, shrouded in the black of night. They were just waiting—waiting for anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. The dementors didn't care if you were a wanted criminal or not—everyone was fair game. Jude watched as Black neared the forest. This might be her only chance to catch Black, to talk to him and maybe clear this whole thing up. Black could be free or behind bars once again by tomorrow if she could just persuade her feet to do exactly the opposite of what her mind commanded. 

                One step and then another, soon she was racing off into the forest after the black dog, careless of what may lay ahead of her. She didn't want to see Rhys again, looking at her like that, accusing her of all the horrible things she was guilty of. She tried to push it to the back of her mind—conquer it—but it kept getting the better of her. A rustle off to her left or right was all that it took to bring the memories rushing back like an icy flood. Focusing on the dog just a few yards in the lead, she shook the haunting scene from her eyes and pressed on. 

                Crashing through the underbrush of the forest, skirting brambles and hurdling fallen logs and branches soaked with the evening's deluge, Jude almost slammed into the dog as it stopped abruptly in a rare clearing. Jude watched cautiously, unnoticed in a thicket just off the strangled path. He was sniffing the air, trying to sense something he could not see. She waited for endless moments before the dog ceased his search, continuing his headlong rush into the forest.

                Fifteen minutes and several scratches later, Jude was relieved to be out of the forest. There were far too many shadowy places for…Jude shuddered at the mere thought of what she was opening herself up to by leaving the safety of the castle and following a convict through a wood saturated with dementors. She hung back, out of sight, as the dog sniffed around once more. Jude knew where she was—just outside of Hogsmeade. Thankfully, no sight of the ghastly hooded beasts milling about. 

                The dog, sensing that the coast was clear, slipped through a carefully dug hole under the fence whose gated road led directly into the town. Jude let the dog progress stealthily a safe distance before she too crawled under the fence. She marveled at how well Black had thought this out—he seemed like one of the many strays that habited the area. Keeping to the shadows, she followed the dog to a rocky rise of ground, secluded from the town. Small mountainous formations here marked the end of the crags and peaks and the beginning of the rolling, hilly land on which the town was built. The dog, surefooted and agile, scaled this miniature Hebrides with little difficulty, but Jude pursued just as easily.        Skirting the edge of a precarious ledge, the dog rounded a corner and was out of sight. Jude froze. Should she follow? Black had not been out of her sight for a second since she left the school. If he'd seen her and had become suspicious, this would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush. Afraid to move forward and terrified to retrace her steps into the forest, she fought hard to quell the urge to transform into her human self. She would have no magic as a cat, but a quicker escape was assured her if she remained a feline. 

                Slowly, she crept around the rock face, turning the corner and stepping out onto a larger shelf of stone. Nothing. He was gone. Jude mentally kicked herself for having delayed any longer than necessary. She'd lost him because she let fear get the better of her. As she turned her head frantically left and right, she caught sight of a deeper darkness than the gray night to her immediate right. Her keen cat eyes discerned a cave, almost hidden from view unless one specifically sought it out. He'd disappeared into the dark of that cavern—she had no doubt.

                Being able to see through the murky darkness, a blessed advantage she now had over Black, she crept silently into the inky expanse. She could see the dog, curled up on the hard floor just beyond the mouth of the cave. He was sleeping, as far as Jude could tell—she now felt the confidence of holding all the cards whereas a second ago, she had no advantage whatsoever. Sure that she was out of the light of the crescent moon, she slipped silently back into human form.

                She heard a rustle as the large dog got to its feet, startled. Black hadn't been asleep after all. She had to act quickly or she could be in real trouble, she reasoned.  Raising her left hand and pointing at the growling dog that moved ever nearer to her position—back against the rock wall of the cave, with the mouth of the cave opening out onto the ledge just to her left. 

                "Finite Incantantem!" she shouted, and the dog stopped its advance. In seconds Sirius Black stood where the shaggy dog had been.

                Jude moved deftly to block the exit. She had him trapped, but was beginning to think that was not such a great idea.

                "Very clever." His voice was raspy and choked as if it had been years since he last used it. Jude stood with her back to the moonlight, which provided the only illumination on that rock. No longer in possession of her night vision, she was able only to discern slight movements and the pale light glimmering off of a metallic surface—a sharp and pointed metallic surface. 

***

                "No sign of him, Headmaster." Minerva McGonagall delivered the news to the aged professor outside the doors of the Great Hall. Every now and then, a faint noise could be heard within and immediately would follow the stern warnings of a prefect. The students were all gathered in the hall as the school was turned over for any sign of Sirius Black. 

                "Well, I didn't expect to find much," Dumbledore admitted with a heavy sigh. "He wasn't going to make it easy on us. Minerva, would you please gather the teachers in the staff room?" he entreated his Deputy Headmistress wearily before turning back into the Great Hall to speak with the prefects.

                "Of course, Headmaster." Professor McGonagall bustled off down the corridor to pull the rest of the teachers from the fruitless search to await the Headmaster in the staff room.

                A few moments later, the staff room was alive with the din of tense discussion. Professor McGonagall paced the floor by the entrance, awaiting the orders of Dumbledore, who had not shown up as of yet.

                "Did anyone discover how Black got into the school in the first place?" Professor Sinistra, a young Middle Eastern woman who taught Astronomy, cut through the debate among the others. 

                "Well, if we knew that, we wouldn't be sitting here, would we, Indira?" Professor Vector leveled a withering glance at her young, and perhaps a little naïve colleague.

                "We know he didn't just walk in the front doors, so how did he get in?" Next to Indira Sinistra, the plump Herbology teacher spoke up. "I think it was a fair question, Jane," Professor Sprout continued, glancing harshly at Professor Vector for her lack of professionalism. 

                "That shouldn't be entirely ruled out either, Sue." Professor Flitwick piped up beside Professor Sprout. "The front doors are relatively defenseless—now that I think about it, it seems the most likely way."

                "Are you saying that Black got through the dementors at the gates and waltzed right through the main entrance, normal as you please?" Jane Vector spat back at the tiny Charms teacher. Her ill temper was at a height tonight and anyone was fair game.

                "That's exactly what I'm saying." Flitwick was up to the challenge. 

                "Well, how did he get past the dementors?" Sinistra questioned in her thick Saudi accent. 

                "Twelve years in Azkaban should have rendered him completely senseless, out of his mind," Flitwick explained. "But he seems to have some resistance to the creatures."

                "Maybe he didn't have to pass the dementors at all." Professor Snape sat at one end of the long table, silent until now. His black eyes were fixed, unblinking on the man at the opposite end of the table. The man held his stare equally, remaining quiet and unnoticed by the rest.

                "Are you suggesting Black had inside help?" Vector asked, relishing the idea of scandal.

                Snape nodded, not breaking his glare. "Black isn't entirely without friends, Jane." Snape's voice was icy and accusing. The man stayed silent and unmoving at the other end of the glare.

                "And whom would you charge with such treachery?" Vector continued, smelling intrigue. "Certainly not…"

                But Vector had not the opportunity to reveal whom she believed capable of such betrayal. Professor Dumbledore came through the doors, quieting the discussion flitting across the table. Moving into the room with Minerva at his heels, he paused beside the cheery fire where Professor Binns floated languidly, listening to the conversation but taking no part in it. Little perked the interest of the History teacher, especially trivial (mortal) matters like knife-wielding psychopaths.

                "It has been confirmed by the Gryffindor guardian, the Fat Lady, that her attacker was indeed Sirius Black." A general murmur chased around the room at this revelation. "It is uncertain why he attacked her, but I shouldn't hesitate to guess. It probably would not be much amiss if I surmised he was after Mr. Potter." Another murmur and nodding. "The students will remain in the Great Hall for the remainder of the night."

                He cast a judicious glance at his staff seated around the table. "There is a serious question of security to deal with now. It seems that, despite our, er, guests, Black has still managed to penetrate the castle walls."

                Flitwick raised a tiny hand to call the Headmaster's attention. "If I may make a suggestion."

                "Of course," the Headmaster conceded, smiling benignly.

                "The front doors seem to be the most obvious entrance, yet the least protected. If you wish, I could train the doors to recognize a picture of the man. They could discern who to let in and who to bar. It would be an easy defense against Sirius Black."

                Dumbledore nodded, mulling the suggestion over. "It is an excellent idea, Ferdinand. I trust I can leave the task to you?"

                "Yes, of course." Flitwick sounded overjoyed. 

                "I suggest guard trolls at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower," Professor McGonagall stated. "You'll be hard pressed to find another guardian if not."

                "Another wonderful suggestion." Dumbledore nodded to the professor.

                "That will do little good if someone is informing him, telling him the best way to get in and out of the castle." Professor Snape's icy voice cut through the room. His eyes flicked from Dumbledore to the man he'd glared at during the previous conversation. 

                "That is quite true, Severus," Dumbledore replied. "But that will not be a problem here. I have the highest confidence in my staff." Dumbledore's voice was as stony as the professor's. He knew what he was suggesting—who he was suspecting.

                "Can you truly rule that out entirely, Headmaster?" Snape continued. "Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were thick as thieves—," 

                "At one time, yes, we were." The man who'd faced Snape's accusing glare in silence now spoke. "But James was my friend as well. I would never place his son in any harm." His voice was calm but there was a steely ferocity to it. Snape reluctantly backed down from the argument as the Headmaster continued. Yet he kept the man under his scrutinizing stare, which was held equally by the professor's unwavering gray eyes. 

                "My staff is trustworthy, Severus. I trust Remus, as I trust you." The words were biting, but Dumbledore softened the blow as much as possible.

                "But we cannot rule out those who are familiar with the school, yet questionable in loyalty," Jane Vector broke in. Dumbledore listened curiously to the Arithmancy teacher as she spoke. "A former employee of yours, perhaps."

                "What are you saying, Jane?" Professor Snape broke the menacing stare he held with Professor Lupin and glared at Vector sharply.

                "Elliot, of course." The other teachers around the room appeared either to agree, or more likely to seem incredulous. Only one professor seemed confused by this pronouncement. "She is rather suspicious, you must admit, after You-Know-Who's attempt to steal the Sorcerer's Stone."

                "Who is this Elliot?" Professor Lupin was looking at Dumbledore, begging an explanation.

                "None of your concern," Professor Snape said without a change in his expression. 

                "I believe an explanation is in order," Dumbledore conceded, ignoring Snape. "Jude Elliot was a former student here, about, oh…" he pondered this for a moment, "five, six years ago." Professor Lupin listened attentively. "Her background is somewhat questionable but her loyalty to me is not. I asked her to look after Harry when he started Hogwarts—after an attempt to rob Nicholas Flamel of his famous Sorcerer's Stone. She performed her duty admirably."

                Professor Vector snorted disdainfully. "If you call nearly getting the boy killed admirable."

                Professor Snape sprang out of his chair violently, towering over the table, glaring harshly at Vector. "She saved that boy's life and it almost cost her own. Find someone else for your witch hunt." His hands were flat on the wooden tabletop, his black eyes leveled at Jane, who didn't shrink one bit under the withering glare. Professor Lupin watched the exchange curiously.

                "If I'm not mistaken, Severus, this was your witch hunt. I am merely making a suggestion. And she is a suspicious one," Vector retorted expertly.

                "Professor Vector, Miss Elliot renounced her former life and any loyalty to Voldemort thirteen years ago and has done nothing to make me regret placing my trust in her yet." He turned from Professor Vector to Lupin. "I hope this clears up any questions you have on that point?" Dumbledore questioned and he nodded, staring thoughtfully at the table in front of him, as if trying to see something that wasn't there.

                "The new defenses will be put in place immediately. If you have any more suggestions, I would be happy to hear them." But as the Headmaster was only answered with silence, harsh glares exchanged among some of the teachers, he decided to end the meeting. "Before I allow you to turn in, I would like for volunteers to take up a watch of the halls tonight." He glanced around the table at the weary faces of his staff.

                "I will, Headmaster," Professor Lupin volunteered almost immediately.

                "As do I," Professor Snape offered as well. The tangible stare was renewed between the two for a moment before the Headmaster spoke. 

                "Excellent," Dumbledore sounded delighted. "And I would like another pair of volunteers to relieve them at three". McGonagall accepted the charge, as did Sinistra.

                As the teachers filed out of the staff room, McGonagall hung back to speak to the two professors who'd spent the entire forty or so minutes trying to kill each other with their eyes. "A word, if you please," she said as she stepped in front of Professor Snape and Professor Lupin. "Remember that this is all bigger than some silly schoolboy rivalry, gentlemen." After a stern look that made both feel as if they were back in third year, being scolded by the unforgiving Transfiguration teacher, she turned on her heels and left the room, followed by her former students.

***

                Jude backed a little out of the cave, away from the advance of the man who held a knife poised in one hand for some sinister purpose. "Expelliarmus!" she shouted, hoping that it would disarm her opponent. But he held fast to the knife in his steel grip.

                "Nice try, but I think not." The raspy voice mocking her chilled her more efficiently than the late October air. Then, planting her feet firmly in the rock, she chided herself for giving ground to this guy. She would not be intimidated.

                "Stupify!" It was her last attempt. She didn't want to knock him out, but if her only other choice was to be skewered by a lunatic, this looked more appealing.

                With an audible thud, Black hit the hard rock. Jude rushed over, quickly disarming him. Knife in hand and her arm wrapped around his neck, bringing the blade into contact with the skin under the unconscious convict's chin, she muttered the words that brought the man back to consciousness. 

                "Don't move," she cautioned the man as he struggled under her grip. "I don't want to hurt you, so don't take away any other options."

                "Who are you?" the man choked out, unable to get a good look at the girl who held him at knife's point. "How did you do that? You don't have a wand!" He struggled to slow his breathing as every movement brought the steel in contact with his skin.

                "I take it you haven't met many sorcerers?" Jude retorted blandly.

                "Just Dumbledore, and you don't look much like him." He laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh. It reminded her of the rumors she'd heard in the last few weeks—after he killed the dozen or so Muggles on the street front, he laughed. She tightened her grip on the knife.

                "Well, then I will keep my secret," Jude spat, fighting to control her nerves. Everything told her that she should simply turn this guy over to the dementors. But there were things she had to know. She had to know whether he was truly innocent or not. "You can call me a friend of Dumbledore's."

                He started then painfully winced as the blade bit into the soft flesh of his neck. "A friend of Dumbledore's, you say?" He was thinking something over silently in his head. Jude said nothing. "Can you get a message to him?"

                "What?" Jude was not expecting that. It seemed lately that everyone was speaking in riddles and nothing made sense.

                "Tell Dumbledore that Peter is alive…" But he stopped speaking as the blade fell away from his neck and the girl backed away from him. 

                "You know, too?" she gasped as the man rubbed his neck where the knife had made a tiny gash that was bleeding freely onto his grimy clothes.

                He nodded, getting to his feet.

                She scrambled upright as well, clutching the knife ferociously in front of her. "Explain," she demanded.

                "Peter isn't dead…I didn't kill him." He looked confused, relieved and startled. 

                "I believe you," Jude whispered in astonishment. He knew Peter was alive…what else did he know? "Keep going, this should be a good story." She lowered the knife a little, but not much. "Start with why you were breaking into Gryffindor Tower." Her suspicion still kept her defenses on high alert. 

                "I was trying to get to him," he spat maliciously. 

                "Harry?" Jude said sharply, causing a slight flicker of pain to cross the man's face.

                "No, I would never hurt Harry." Black tried to make Jude believe him, but his knife work on the Fat Lady more than justified her apprehension. "Peter…I was after Peter. The boy has him, one of the kids in that tower."

                Jude lowered the knife. She didn't know how he knew all of it, but it was enough to build on. She began to trust the ragged man who was so unused to being believed. 

                "Ron has him, he's his pet rat…I've been trying to get to him, but…well," Jude was a little embarrassed to admit to Black that she'd let Peter escape her grasp several times because of a few well-aimed kicks from a thirteen year old. "You swear you were never after Harry? You were after Peter the entire time?" 

                "On James' grave, I swear." His eyes held a pain that was heartbreaking as he said the words. Eyes that held the same sorrow she saw in her own reflection from time to time. She felt keen remorse at what she was about to ask, but she had to.

                "Did you betray James and Lily? Did you sell them out to Voldemort?" Jude asked harshly, her voice masking how she felt. It was such a hypocritical question to come from her. She was the one ultimately responsible for James' death—she knew that. But he didn't, and if he did sell his friends out to Voldemort, he was the reason the Dark Lord had found them. If they hadn't known the location of the Potters' hiding place, she would never have had the opportunity to murder James. 

                "I was their Secret Keeper, yes." 

                Jude stiffened at the words. She'd been mistaken in this man and he was really a cold, heartless betrayer. She took a few steps back from him. He didn't notice—he was too busy gathering his thoughts. "But I was the obvious choice, and that scared me. Someone was informing Voldemort of their every move, a spy, someone close. So I convinced Peter to be the Secret Keeper instead. I didn't tell anyone that I did because I had no idea who the informant was. I helped him hide and then I also went into hiding." He stopped, struggling to continue while holding back rage, sadness, or something else. "But when I heard…about the…attack…I went to find Peter and he was gone. No sign of him, and no sign of a struggle."

                Jude didn't know why she did it, but she dropped the knife, which clattered to the ground with little noise, and placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, willing him to go on with his story.

                "When I caught up with the rat the next day, he accused me of betraying James and Lily in the middle of a crowded street. I wanted to kill him and I meant to that day. I had my wand ready…all I had to say were the words. But he beat me to it…cursed half the block apart. Cracked the sewer and the street—that's how I assume he escaped."

                Jude furrowed her brow. "But how did you know he was here, at Hogwarts?" 

                "The paper," Black replied blandly. "Fudge," he spat the name with contempt, with Jude's approval, "had a paper at his last inspection and I saw a picture of the kid with his family. He was there. Peter—a rat. With one toe missing."

                It made enough sense to her, and she nodded. "That's how I guessed. I saw the missing finger." Jude was reluctant to say any more about the hows and whys that surrounded her recognition of Peter. However much Black was fighting for her trust, she was working just as hard to gain and keep his. She could not mention her involvement with Voldemort, nor her involvement the night James and Lily died. She was infinitely thankful that he did not recognize her. 

                "Look," Jude said after a moment's deliberation. "I believe that you're innocent, but I'm about the only one who does. You have a slew of dementors out there who would just love to make your acquaintance. And if you're ever hoping to stay out of Azkaban, we need to get a hold of Peter." At a murderous glare from Black, she added, "alive."

                "I don't care if I live or not, but that rat is going to die. He has to pay for what he's done." 

                Jude winced at the words.

                "You will die, or worse, if you try to go after Peter again. Do you want to go back to Azkaban?"

                He shook his head reluctantly. 

                "Just give me some time, okay. I can help you." She meant what she said, he could tell from the sincerity in her voice and the look on her face. She reminded him of someone…someone close to him at one time…someone he could always trust…or thought he could always trust.

                "Okay, but I don't have much time to spare."

                Jude nodded. "A couple of months. If I can't catch him by then, you're free to do whatever you want…short of hurting anyone but Peter." Jude proceeded, businesslike, with her proposition. "Until then, you'll have to stay low." 

                "Deal," Black said, offering Jude his hand. She took it reluctantly, but smiled.

                As she turned to leave, Black spoke. "Why are you doing this? You could get yourself into a lot of trouble with the Ministry."

                Jude turned back to him slowly, struggling with thought. She shook her head. "Maybe because I know what it feels like—to be guilty until proven innocent."


	27. Giving Up

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series belong to J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this and no copyright infringements were intended. Any dialogue you recognize is probably from PoA and is the literary property of J.K. Rowling.

Author's Note: Halfway there, guys!

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Giving Up

'Tease me, by holding out your hand 

_Then leave me, or take me as I am_

_And live our lives, stigmatized'_

_The Calling, Stigmatized_

                It was early in the morning—Jude could tell by the indigo sky fading to gray as the first fingers of the dawn stretched over the horizon casting dull shadows on the floor of the Common Room. She'd given up her exhaustive searches of the school, the purpose of which was now obsolete. Black had been found—she'd followed him and had been reluctantly convinced of his innocence. Whether she liked it or not, they were now partners in bringing Peter to justice and finally setting the record straight. 

                Jude stretched then leapt up to sit on the sill of the window in an alcove off a bend of the staircase. It looked like rain. Glancing out past the forbidden forest, she thought of Black hiding in his cave, exiled from the world around him. She had visited him only on a couple of instances since they had reached a mutual agreement on Halloween. He'd allowed her only two months to get Peter and make him talk before he went after him alone. Jude knew he was growing impatient with her—she could sense it every time she saw him. He would ask her if she'd done what she had promised and then would silently fume as she pathetically defended herself to him. So, she'd decided to leave off filling him in on every detail and bent her efforts toward catching Peter. Her attempts had become more audacious lately as she became desperate to fulfill her vow to Black. His trust in her was waning and suspicion growing as time pressed on and she still hadn't delivered. Soon, he would be out for blood and Jude would be powerless to stop him from killing Peter and condemning himself once again to his hell in Azkaban. And who knew? Maybe she would end up there too if Black was to carry out his murderous plot. 

                Her head snapped around at the sound of a door creaking open on rusty, ancient hinges. She abandoned her thoughts and immediately padded softly up the stairs. The door swung open slowly to allow Harry passage through. Jude seized her opportunity and tried to slink past him into the dormitory where, no doubt, Peter was hidden within. But Harry had damn quick reflexes and swiftly hauled her back through the door by her bushy ginger tail. 

                "You know, I reckon Ron was right about you. There are plenty of mice around this place—go and chase them. Go on," he said as he nudged Jude down the stairs with one foot. "Leave Scabbers alone."

                Jude leapt lightly onto a stone banister and eyed Harry angrily as he passed. She wondered if any of these boys realized what danger they were in at the moment—Peter Pettigrew, a former Death Eater, had been hiding out as a rat for God knows how long in their dormitory. And somehow, she was the villain! She shook her head incredulously. Another opportunity shot to hell—this was going to be a long day. 

***

                Jude had not realized that today was a game day. When she'd finally slipped out of the Common Room, she was greeted with crowded halls full of excited students all buzzing with statistics and bets as to who would win. The exuberant chatter was punctuated by peels of thunder—what a fine day for a Qudditch game, Jude thought maliciously. She was thankful that, in a matter of a few hours, she would practically have the castle all to herself—and Peter was as good as hers. 

                As the halls cleared out and the students made their way out into the merciless deluge, Jude crept back up to the Common Room. She smiled inwardly as she looked around—the room was completely empty. Padding silently up the stairs, she listened for any signs that the dormitory where the third year boys slept was occupied. All was silent except for the pounding rain and crashing thunder. She transformed from feline to human and slowly opened the door before dropping back to all fours as the ginger cat and entered the room. She couldn't let Peter see her—if he was hard to find now, he'd flee never to be seen again if he knew she was hunting him. She prowled through the room, careful not to make a sound. She checked the beds, drawers, drapes…everywhere. Peter was not there. She sighed heavily, understanding that she had once again been defeated. Gritting her teeth angrily, she knew who was responsible for thwarting her. Ron.

                She jumped down from the bed she'd thoroughly combed only moments before and made her way silently out of the room and down the stairs again. Debating whether she should wade through the mud and muck to keep an eye on Ron and his rat and wait patiently for another opportunity, or curl up by the fire and forget everything for a few hours, Jude finally decided to brave the storm. She would not be made a fool of by Voldemort's sniveling servant—the same man who used to cower under her glare. Exiting the castle, she immediately regretted her decision. Cats hate to get wet. 

                Halfway to the Quidditch pitch, Jude froze. The game was already well under way even though it seemed near impossible to fly a broom under such conditions—well, at least it seemed impossible to her—she hated flying. But the sight of the players fighting the gales was not what caught her attention. In the top row of the stands boasting gold and scarlet banners, Jude glimpsed a large, shaggy black dog, his fur soaked with rain. She stared unblinkingly through the deluge, scowling as much as possible for a cat. What the hell did Black think he was doing taking risks like this? She bounded furiously toward the stand and watched, shaking with rage as the dog descended. But the dog hadn't noticed her…he was fleeing the grounds for another reason and in an instant Jude knew what that reason was. He undoubtedly felt the unmistakable chill the dementors wrought in their wake. As the cold swept over her in successive waves, she saw dozens of dementors flocking to the swarms of cheering students. Jude's eyes widened in terror as she realized their destination and she wondered if Dumbledore would be present at the game to ward off the immense threat before her thoughts were lost in her own miserable memories. Those memories too faded in succession as she sunk further into a sea of cold, black nothingness. 

***

                "What the hell were you doing there?" Jude raged, her voice echoing loudly off of the cavernous walls of the grotto Black had been hiding in. 

                "Now I have to ask your permission to leave this wretched cave?" Black bellowed back matching Jude's tone and volume. "I just wanted to see my godson again, that's all."

                "Well, you'll be able to see him all you want to after you're free. But until then, it's too dangerous for you to just go anywhere you please." Jude felt a little remorse at keeping him from Harry, but it was necessary until he was cleared. 

                Black shook his head morosely. "You don't get it, do you?" His harsh glare caused her to back down. "I am never going to be free. To them I will always be guilty…hell, even I'm not convinced of my own innocence." 

                Jude shook her head. "But I am." 

                He looked up at her from his seat on the dusty floor of the cold and damp cave. "And who are you? Why should anyone believe you when you tell them I'm not guilty?" His eyes were piercing and accusing. "You won't tell me your name or anything about you, and I'm just supposed to trust you implicitly?"

                She crossed her arms defensively and returned his cold glare. "No one will believe me if I don't get Peter." 

                At the sound of the name, Black bristled and spat "just let me kill him. I'm tired of waiting for you to come through on your end."

                Jude's shoulders dropped for the moment. He was right—he had no reason to trust her. But seeing him just give up like this made her angry. He wasn't the only one with something at stake here. "And this is all the thanks I get for trying to help you?" Her chest was rising and falling as she huffed angrily, trying in vain to control her temper. "I put my ass on the line for you, Black, and this is what I get? The Ministry has wanted to throw me in Azkaban since I was ten and now they may get their wish just because you're tired of waiting!" Jude bit back the rest of the accusations that were desperate to come out. She had already said too much and Black was looking at her more suspiciously by the moment. 

                Finally, he broke the tense silence. "Is that what you want? Praise for clearing the name of the infamous Sirius Black?"

"No!" she spat indignantly. "In fact, I'd rather stay out of sight in all of this. I'd be signing my own death warrant if anyone got word I was helping you—guilty or not."

Black stared at her judiciously. "What is your stake in all of this? What do you have to lose?"

                She thought for a moment on the questions. She had hoped to prove to the Ministry that they were wrong about Black…that they had made a mistake. She wanted to show everyone that they had been wrong about them both. He was innocent and she was trustworthy. But now, those hopes seemed ridiculous. She and Black were the same—they would forever be stigmatized. Shaking her head she replied with little feeling. "Nothing." 

                "Then why should I believe that you would keep your promise? I don't know anything about you…not even your name. Give me a reason to trust you." 

                There was another indeterminably long silence. The silence was finally interrupted by Jude's reply—barely audible above the storm still raging outside. 

                "What did you say?" Black barked, wasting little sympathy on Jude as she struggled for words. 

                She didn't want to tell this man anything about her. If he had a sharp memory, he should have already recognized her. But it was clear that he hadn't realized she was the girl present at the scene of the crime the night his best friend was murdered. His harsh glare implored her to answer him however. "My name is Jude," she replied, meeting his stare insolently. She watched nervously as he scowled, trying to place the name with the memory. To her relief, he seemed not to have made the connection. 

                "And why should I trust you, Jude?" he asked less harshly than before, but his voice still had a sharp edge to it.

                She shook her head. "Because you have no other choice."

                He snorted incredulously at her answer. "Of course I have—," 

                She interrupted him coldly. "Yes, but it's not very pleasant. Still, if that's what you want, I think there are five or so dementors milling about in the woods. I'll be happy to introduce you." She was a little pleased to see him shiver at the name of the dreaded creatures. So he still possessed some sense. 

                He leaned his head wearily against the stone. After a thoughtful pause, Black tossed something at her feet. "Or you could just finish me off." 

                She looked at the object glistening just out of her reach. It was the knife she'd held at his throat on Halloween night. "No one could blame you…say it was self defense…just promise you'll kill the rat for me."

                Narrowing her eyes at him, she knew from this pronouncement that he did not want to return to Azkaban. She picked up the knife and examined it for a few minutes. He couldn't have realized what he was asking her, but the request stung all the same. She had vowed never to murder again and she wouldn't betray that promise for anyone. She threw the knife hard at the opposite wall where it bit into the stone above Black's head, imbedding itself a few inches in the rock. "No," she replied blandly. "You owe James more than that. And you owe Harry more than that." She could have added that she too owed both of them as much as he did.

                "How is Harry?" Black asked quietly. He'd fled at the sight of the dementors but had realized he was not their intended target.

                "He's fine," Jude answered dispassionately. "Dumbledore was there. He's pretty upset about losing the game, so I heard. And his friends said his broom got smashed up pretty bad in that willow." She jerked her head in the direction of the Whomping Willow, clearly agitated at Black's change of subject. After an awkward silence, Jude continued. "I will get Peter, make no mistake of that. But it will take some more time and patience." She studied Black's mutinous expression for a while. "Are you willing to help me make everything right, Black?" 

                He reluctantly nodded. 

                She wanted to believe him, but she knew that his conscious demanded quick and thorough recompense. She would have to act quickly to bring Peter in or Black would have his revenge. She left the cave after carefully studying Black's face, willing him to trust her—but she knew that trust had to be earned. 

***

                Jude hadn't treaded the path in the woods to the cave in almost a month—she'd decided not to visit Black until she had caught Peter. He would have to suffer his impatience by himself—Jude would no longer be party to his self-destructive plans. The grounds had become a crystalline world of frost and icicles and the students were buzzing with the excitement of the approaching holidays. She had begun exhaustive searches of the castle once more, but she was no longer hunting Black through the cold and dark halls. She was after Peter. She had become increasingly anxious to find him—for Black's sanity and for her own. She was becoming just as impatient. It had been weeks since she'd actually seen Peter or heard him mentioned by Ron, so she knew he hadn't disappeared as of yet. But every time she searched the third year boys' room, he was nowhere to be seen.

                After nearly a month of wearying and constant searches for Peter, Jude was beginning to feel the strain. She lay fitfully napping on Hermione's bed when the door slammed open against the wall. Hermione rushed in with a stack of books in her arms, which she threw wearily on the desk. Glancing at the titles of the books, Jude wondered what this was all about. She knew that, if giving the chance, Hermione would study herself into the ground—she'd been pushing that limit all term. The girl reminded her of Rhys—anything concerning his education could send the usually cool and collected man into a tizzy, even though he was sure to excel in anything he put his mind to. Jude felt a little pang as she thought of him, then decided it would do her no good to think of him at the moment, she pushed him from her mind and turned her attention back to Hermione. 

                "I can't find anything to help Hagrid with his trial, Crookshanks," Hermione sighed as she collapsed onto the bed next to the ginger cat. So that's what this was all about—she was helping Hagrid to win his case for Buckbeak. "The date has been set for April 20th! That means I only have a few months to find something good…something that will convince them not to execute poor Beaky!" She spoke aloud to the cat as if it were a real person.

"Not far from the truth," Jude thought and felt a little guilty for having tricked the girl.

"And on top of my school work, it's going to be impossible. I guess I shouldn't expect much help from Harry and Ron!" she fumed to the cat. 

Jude felt a little guilty for not being able to help Hagrid as well, but she reasoned that she could not risk the exposure. She hoped for Hermione's and Hagrid's sake that everything worked out and the Hippogriff walked away from all of this. 

***

Christmas came too suddenly for Jude. Almost four months had passed and she was no closer to her goal. Cambridge seemed years away and the pain of losing everything was still severely acute as she stared out of the window of the snug room. Hermione was still asleep in the early dawn hours. Jude had not been able to rest. The past had not allowed her to close her eyes that night and she wondered if Black was aware what day it was, whether or not he was haunted by ghosts of memory as well. 

"Merry Christmas!" 

Jude turned quickly to see Hermione seizing an armload of presents from the foot of her bed. She tore through the paper of every parcel excitedly as Jude watched, glad that someone at least was enjoying the day. After the order was restored to the room—paper placed in the wastebasket and gifts placed neatly on her bed—Hermione tied a bit of cast-off tinsel around Jude's neck as she struggled mightily to make an escape before she scooped her up in her arms and pulled open the doors. 

"Come on, Crookshanks." Hermione was padding down the steps in her slippers and robe quickly. "Let's see if the boys are up."

Entering the boys' dormitory, Jude did not try to hide her displeasure. 

"Don't bring him in here!" 

"Merry Christmas to you too, Ron," Jude thought maliciously as she noticed the boy snatch up the sickly rat and stow him in his pajama pocket.

Hermione didn't seem to notice and dropped her cat on an empty bed. She was staring open-mouthed at a broom in Harry's hands.

"Oh, _Harry_! Who sent you _that_?"

Jude tore her glare away from Ron's pocket and stared in disbelief at the broom. Jude took in every inch of the object with sharp eyes. It was the same one Harry was staring at in the shop in Diagon Alley. 

"No idea," said Harry. "There wasn't a card or anything with it."

"It can't be…" Jude thought with disbelief. Black. He promised her not to take any more risks again then the bastard pulls something like this. Jude was seething with rage. 

Hermione bit her lip, looking suspiciously at the broom. Jude knew the girl was smart, but her perceptiveness was uncanny and a little frightening. She knew exactly what the girl was thinking. 

"What's the matter with you?" said Ron.

"I don't know," said Hermione slowly, "but it's a bit odd, isn't it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a good broom, isn't it?" 

"It's the best broom there is, Hermione," Ron said exasperatedly. 

"So it must've been really expensive…" Hermione continued. Jude was thinking the same thing. She'd told Black that Harry had lost his broom, but how on earth could he have gotten this one to him without drawing too much attention to himself. That was what was worrying her—he probably ignored the risk and did just exactly what he wanted to. She felt a little betrayed at his cavalier attitude toward clearing his name. She was risking everything that mattered to her—Dumbledore's trust—the only thing she still possessed, and he wanted to throw everything away. He wanted to get caught.

"Probably cost more that all the Slytherins' brooms put together," Ron answered happily.

"Well…who'd send Harry something as expensive as that, and not even tell him they'd sent it?" said Hermione. 

"Who cares?" said Ron impatiently. "Listen, Harry, can I have a go on it? Can I?"

"I don't think anyone should ride that broom just yet!" Hermione said shrilly. 

Jude was growing impatient with the conversation. She knew that the broom was not dangerous, but these three didn't. Hermione was right and had damn good reasons to be suspicious, but the boys would not listen to her. Jude felt indignant on her behalf, but this tinsel was getting on her nerves and she couldn't stand that Peter was so close and she could do nothing about it. 

"What d'you think Harry's going to do with it—sweep the floor?" said Ron.

"That's it!" Jude thought as she sprang from the bed. She couldn't take it any longer. She landed right on Ron's chest and tore furiously at his shirt. Peter scrabbled up Ron's shoulder. Jude would have him this time. 

"GET—HIM—OUT—OF—HERE!" Ron bellowed as Crookshanks's claws ripped at his pajamas. Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and held him out of Jude's frustrated grasp and aimed a misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at the foot of Harry's bed instead. Ron hopped up and down, howling with pain.

An ear-splitting sound filled the room, causing Jude's fur to stand on end and she hissed despite herself. 

"I forgot about that!" Harry said, bending down and picking up a Sneakoscope. "I never wear those socks if I can help it…"

The Sneakoscope whirled and whined. Jude squeezed her eyes shut, wincing in pain. It was like listening to a train whistle with a hangover. 

"You'd better take that cat out of here, Hermione," said Ron furiously. Jude could not muster the slightest bit of sympathy for the boy as he sat clutching his foot. As far as she was concerned he deserved it. She fumed as Hermione scooped her up and left the room. Some how she knew that was her last chance. Peter definitely knew now that he was hunted by Voldemort's once-faithful spy. 

***

Jude spent most of the morning staring out of the window of the girl's dormitory at the frosted landscape of early February, thinking about Peter, who'd been unusually scarce for the past few weeks. Hermione had buried herself in study until it was time for lunch. When she got up to leave her room, Jude tried to escape between her feet. 

"Now, you've caused enough trouble, don't you think Crookshanks?" Hermione said as she nudged Jude back into the room with her foot, not unkindly. She shut the door after giving her cat an apologetic look. 

"Damn it, Hermione!" Jude fumed. Listening for her steps to fade, Jude transformed back to her human form. Crossing the room to the door, she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the mirror. She looked almost as bad as Black, she thought ruefully. Tentatively, she pulled the door open. The Common Room was deserted. She climbed the stairs to the familiar room. Silence. She pulled the door open slowly. Casting a furtive glance around, she saw no trace of Peter. It was as she expected.  

As she turned back to the door, she noticed a piece of parchment lying on a table near the window. It was a list of passwords. She grabbed it off the table and stuffed it into her pocket. She failed. It was Black's turn now.

***

Jude stood, shivering in the entrance to the cave. It had taken her almost a week to calm down enough to face Black. 

"Well?" Black finally asked, curious as to why she stood, unblinking and staring coldly at him. 

"I lose. You win." She fished the list of passwords out of her pocket. Her fingers brushed against the worn parchment of her treasured letter and the metal of the golden bracelet. She tossed the list to Black. He examined it.

"I don't get it." He looked up from the list with a questioning glance.

"I give up. He's all yours." 

"Oh," he said. He looked at the list pensively. 

She furrowed her brows. She refused to feel guilty about giving up on him. He didn't want her to fight to prove his innocence, he'd shown that when he risked everything to give Harry that broom. 

"What? This is what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted me to shove off so you could kill Peter, no questions asked, right?" Jude paced while Black just stared blankly back at her. 

"You're giving up on me?" he finally asked. 

"Why not? It's not like you ever gave me a chance. You don't trust me—you've shown me that by putting us both on the line…several times!" She stopped pacing and leveled an accusing glare in his direction. 

"I just thought it would make Harry happy is all. No one will know it was me." 

"No?" Jude spat contemptuously. "I figured it out and so did Harry's friend. She made Harry turn it over to McGonagall." 

He hung his head in thought. 

"Are you sure you want this? Just say the word, Black, and I'm out of your hair for good." Jude placed her hands impatiently in her pockets. She was cold and didn't intend to wait on him a moment longer when he finally spoke. 

"Yes, I want this to be over." His voice was mournful and weary. Jude could understand his resolution. She knew what it was like to want to give it all up—to hell with justice. 

She nodded. Regretting her decision to leave him to his reckless abandon, Jude turned to leave. She snapped back around quickly and eyed him shrewdly. "If you go after him, promise me you will wait until he's alone. Do not attack him with the kids around."

He simply nodded and she turned away from him. It wasn't fair—he'd practically forced her to give up on him, yet she felt like the traitor.

***

                Curled up in a chair next to Hermione as she worked her way through a pile of parchment, her head popped up as she heard a familiar voice. 

                "I got it back," Harry said, grinning at her. Jude stretched and looked up at the boys. Ever since Hermione had ratted on them about the broom, they had been unforgivably cruel to her. Harry was holding the broom in front of Hermione who looked as if she did not know how to respond. 

                "See, Hermione? There wasn't anything wrong with it!" said Ron. 

                "Well—there _might_ have been!" said Hermione. "I mean, at least you know now that it's safe!"

                "Yeah, I suppose so," said Harry. "I'd better put it upstairs—," 

                "I'll take it!" said Ron eagerly. "I've got to give Scabbers his rat tonic." 

                Jude lifted her head off of her paws for the first time since her rest had been interrupted. The rat had been upstairs the whole time she'd been down here sleeping. She felt horribly lazy and negligent. It took much effort to restrain herself and not to bound up the stairs after Ron in yet another hope of getting to Peter. Even though she'd said she'd given up on Black, she couldn't fight the urge to keep after Peter. Who knew? There may still be a chance for Jude to avert the disaster Black was hell bent to bring on himself. Now that she knew Peter was up there somewhere, she was determined to get him. 

                "Can I sit down, then?" Harry asked Hermione. 

                "I suppose so," she answered, moving a great stack of parchment off of a chair.

                "How are you getting through all this stuff?" Harry asked her, examining the large pile of books, parchments and quills in front of him. 

                "Oh, well—you know—working hard," said Hermione, looking just as tired and stretched as Jude felt. She was sorry for her, but if anyone had tried to tell her not to work so hard when she was in school, she would have laughed in their face. Hermione knew what she was doing. 

                "Why don't you just drop a couple of subjects?" Harry asked. 

                "I couldn't do that!" Hermione retorted as she lifted books in search of something. 

                "Arithmancy looks terrible," said Harry, picking up a very complicated-looking number chart.

                "You only know the half of it, kid," Jude thought with a yawn. "I'll bet you've never met Professor Vector!"

                "Oh no, it's wonderful!" said Hermione earnestly. 

                Jude glanced momentarily at the girl. Maybe she did take this to the extreme—anything having to do with Vector was rarely wonderful and more along the lines of the third ring of hell. 

                "It's my favorite subject! It's—," 

                But she was interrupted by a strangled cry from upstairs. Harry and Hermione quickly looked in the direction of the stairs. Jude heard the hurried sound of frantic footsteps and a moment later Ron appeared dragging a…bed sheet? Jude narrowed her eyes, perplexed by the strange scene.

                "LOOK!" he bellowed, striding over to Hermione's table. Jude slunk from the seat of the chair to a shadowed corner beneath the table and out of sight. Ron's aim was getting better with practice and she did not want to be around if this had anything remotely to do with Hermione's misbehaving cat. "LOOK!" he yelled again, shaking the sheet in her face.

                "Ron, what—," 

                "SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!" 

                Hermione backed away from the angry and bellowing Ron, looking utterly startled and bewildered. Jude peered closely at the sheet, at a small spot on it which looked an awful lot like…

                "BLOOD!" Ron yelled, shattering the crystal silence. "HE'S GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE FLOOR?"

                "N—no," said Hermione, her voice trembling. 

                Ron threw something small onto the table before Jude had a chance to notice what he held as evidence. In fact she hadn't been listening past the pronouncement "He's gone!" Peter was gone. Bollocks! She'd lost him!

                Hermione slammed her book shut with a seismic snap. "That doesn't prove anything, Ron, those hairs could have been there since Christmas. Maybe Scabbers is hiding somewhere and you're just not looking—," 

                "Your stupid cat ate him! I know it and you're just too much of a coward to admit that this is all your fault!" Ron seethed, leaning over the table, glaring at his friend. 

                Jude jumped at the screech of the chair legs scratching the floor as Hermione shoved her chair away from the table violently and streaked off up the stairs to her room. There was an awkward, still silence punctuated only by the distant slamming of a door. Then angry footsteps ascending the stone stairs followed by a sigh and another chair groaning against the wooden floor as Harry finally left the table and headed for the portrait hole. 

                She was alone under a table and Peter was gone. This was not how she'd imagined it would all turn out. It was her fault—if only she hadn't been so foolish, she could have had Peter. She'd deceived herself into believing that she was the one with the upper hand—that she was the only one who knew the players in this game of cat and mouse. But Peter had indeed recognized her. Why else would he have fled? No, she had been duped for the second time in her life. It had become a sort of haunting ritual for her to screw everything up so close to the end. 

                Forcing herself off of the floor, she headed for the portrait hole. She had to make this right. She had to find him.


	28. Lost And Found

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the literary property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. 

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lost and Found

'So if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive 

_Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?_

_It's driven me before and it seems to be the way that everyone else gets around._

_But lately I'm beginning to find that when I drive myself my light is found'_

_Incubus, Drive_

                Jude hadn't slept in…what? Days? Weeks? She'd lost count. Every moment was spent prowling the castle in search of Peter. He couldn't have gotten very far, Jude figured. The dementors were crawling over every inch of the ground outside and Peter would be daft if he'd tried to escape with that lot milling about. No, she reckoned he'd hide somewhere, wisely, laying low until Black and the dementors had cleared off. Then he'd make a break for it. 

                But she'd been fooled once—and had learned her lesson. She would never underestimate Peter again. The castle needed a thorough going over before she could turn her attention to combing the grounds. But countless hours spent searching every crack and crevice in the enormous castle had turned up nothing. She would have to ignore the fear that threatened to swallow her up and brave the dark expanses of the night if she ever hoped to fix her mistake. 

                The night wasn't so bad after all, Jude thought as she stepped out into the clean air of early spring. The snows had melted and the wind held only the slightest chill as it blew gently across the star-lit landscape. All in all, it was a lovely night. Jude, however, had little time for admiring the perfect scene—she had work to do. Off to her right she could hear a Quidditch practice in session. She decided to start there—it was well lit after all. 

                Minutes, maybe hours had passed and Jude had found no trace of Peter. At first she thought she detected the sent leading off of the path from the front doors to the lake, but was thrown off the track when Harry and Ron unexpectedly rounded the corner and came face to face with her. Jude had avoided the boys ever since the night she was accused of killing Ron's rat in an attempt to forgo scenes like this one. She'd apparently startled Harry and as soon as he'd lit the path with his wand, Ron had seized a rock and hurled it at her. 

                "Get out of here!" he roared as the rock missed her by a good yard. Thank goodness for the kid's bad aim, she thought as she skirted the tree and fled from the light. She did not want to volunteer for target practice. The scent had been lost, however, in those scant moments. It had led from the front steps to…the right? Or left? This could take a while, she sighed and began the search again for the first hint of Peter in weeks. Patience, Jude, she reminded herself judiciously as she padded through the damp grass.

***

                Another week had passed and the trace had been lost. The only bit of information Jude had gleaned from it was the general direction in which Peter had gone after he'd left the castle. The only good news was that she had yet to encounter a single dementor. This boosted her confidence only little, however. She was stiff and tired and hungry. Every movement reminded her of her sore muscles. She couldn't go on like this for much longer and decided it would be best to get at least a little sleep. The halls of the castle were cold and quiet and Jude met no one as she climbed the last staircase to the Gryffindor Tower. It was late and everyone was asleep.

                On the landing, however, she heard the hushed, yet severe voice of Professor McGonagall. Jude was curious to see whom she was talking to in so strange a manner. A student out after curfew, no doubt, she thought as she drew nearer. There was not a student in sight, however. Professor McGonagall stood facing the portrait that served as the temporary guardian to the entrance of the Gryffindor Common Room. 

                "Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor Tower?" 

                "Certainly, good lady!" Sir Cadogan answered with annoying chivalry. Jude froze as the full weight of the words struck her. 

                "You—you _did_?" said Professor McGonagall. "But—but the password!"

                "He had them!" said Sir Cadogan proudly. "Had the whole week's, my lady. Read 'em off a little piece of paper!"

                Through the stunned silence, Jude could hear Ron's familiar voice through the open portrait hole, recounting his daring escape from beneath Sirius Black's knife. Jude did not wait to hear more. 

***

                "Thought I'd be seeing you here tonight," Black greeted her dispassionately as she rounded the corner and stood in the cave's entrance. "Come to lecture me about my crude tactics?" 

                Jude huffed with rage and the effort of running through the forest after him on little steam. "You arrogant bastard. You deserve to get caught, do you know that?" She leaned wearily against the wall. "You honestly don't care how this looks, do you?"

                "How does it look, Jude?" Black spat the name contemptuously. 

                "You haven't acted like an innocent man. A knife? Are you crazy? Even if I do get Peter now, no one will believe you." Jude buried her face in her hands trying to fight the sleep that threatened to overwhelm her. 

                "The kid is fine." Black eyed her coldly. 

                "He woke up in the middle of the night to find a wanted criminal standing over him _with a knife_…and he's _fine_?" Jude noticed his eyes flash as she called him a wanted criminal. She touched a nerve and was not sorry in the least. She shook her head and laughed mirthlessly. "Don't you want your life back?"

                "Do you honestly think bringing Peter in will change anything? Nothing I can do, nothing I can say will give me back those twelve years." He was on his feet now, pacing furiously. "No, all I want is revenge now. What happens to me…that's inconsequential. I want Peter dead."

                Jude sighed. "Peter should pay for his crimes, but you shouldn't have to any longer. You go back to Azkaban and they win." In a trembling voice she continued. "You owe Harry the truth."

                He stopped his rhythmic pacing. "And how do you know what I owe Harry?" He turned to face her. His glare was cold and malicious yet she held it steadily. The knife was still clutched tightly in his hand. 

                "Because I owe him the same thing." Jude watched as his anger melted into frustrated curiosity. 

                "And why is that? What sort of trouble could you have caused in so short a life?" He gave her an appraising glance. "I bet you just finished school, and like a good little Gryffindor you want to save the world one misjudged wretch at a time."

                Jude gave him an incredulous smirk. "Actually, I left Hogwarts almost six years ago…and I was in Slytherin." She almost laughed as Black's face fell in disbelief. 

                "Slytherin? No wonder I can't trust you." Black smiled a bit. Jude reckoned it had been ages since he'd smiled—it looked like the most unnatural thing to him in the world. Smiles were feeling more and more foreign to her as well—she couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled or laughed from sheer joy or happiness. Maybe she'd never had. 

                "Spoken like a true Gryffindor," Jude sneered. 

                "How did you know that?" Black asked surprised to find out just how much the strange girl knew. 

                "Hagrid." Her answer was purposely cryptic. She didn't want to talk about the past any longer. He had enough clues to go on. If he still didn't know who she was, that was tough. 

                "It's not fair. You seem to know everything about me and so far all I know about you is your first name, your age—roughly, although I thought you were a lot younger—and that you were a Slytherin." Black was staring at her, grasping for something else to go on. 

                She shook her head. "That's about it." After a moment's silence, Jude finally spoke again. "So, now that you know more about me are you going to stop being such a pain in the ass and help me?"

                "You lost him didn't you?" Black said, with minimal surprise. 

                Jude's guilt melted into incredulity. "It's like you expected me to lose him or something."

                "No. Just figured he'd taken off when I didn't see him anywhere tonight." Black threw the knife at the ground where it stuck, the point several inches deep in the dusty floor of the cave. He sat down wearily next to it and wrapped his arms tightly around his thin frame. "I guess I have you to thank for that."

                "I'll find him," she said defensively. He nodded slightly and closed his eyes. "I swear I will. He can't have gone far…" she sputtered weak pleas but was interrupted by Black.      "I know you didn't mean to let Peter go. He's around here somewhere and we'll find him. But for right now, will you just shut up and let me get some sleep?"

                Jude nodded. "Right." She turned to quietly leave, guessing that that had officially ended the discussion. 

                "You can stay if you want. I don't imagine you fancy crossing that forest alone tonight." 

                She scowled at the insolent man in front of her, but accepted the offer all the same. The ginger cat curled up on the other side of the cave and fell asleep almost instantly. 

***

                "What day do you suppose it is?" 

                "Dunno," Jude mumbled in reply to Black's question. She was bent over a bramble searching furiously underneath for Peter. It was the billionth such prickly bush she'd searched that day and her back was killing her. They'd spent every daylight hour—and even some nighttime hours, when they felt brave enough to chance the dementors—for weeks combing the forest for any sign of the escapee, and had found little more than some tracks, which could have been made by any creature. Jude was tired and agitated—the last thing she wanted right now was small talk. How could she possibly know what day it was? She hadn't set foot inside the castle in a week, maybe two. The day had not yet dawned, but it held the promise of being sunny and warm—it may have been late April or early May. But was it Tuesday? Wednesday? Saturday? There was no way for her to know.  Still, she was curious as to why he asked. "Why do you want to know?"

                He sighed and sank to the damp ground, looking over the grounds toward the school. "Because, I have an idea." 

Jude followed his eyes to the castle then shook her head. "I told you I turned that place upside down—he's not there, Black." She bent back to work, agitated that he was amusing himself by wasting her time. 

"I know," he retorted a bit harshly. "That's not it. I have an idea that might help us find Peter a bit quicker than this. It's so brilliant, I don't know why I didn't think of it before." He was smiling slyly as he stared at the castle in the fading night.

"Because it's a brilliant plan, that's why. Gryffindors aren't much acclaimed for their bright ideas." Jude snorted as she crawled through a particularly thick and thorny bramble. "Ow! Bugger!" Another cut to add to her collection on this fruitless effort. Her hands were red and sore, tiny cuts crisscrossed her skin. 

Black shot her a sinister glare. "You deserved that, you know." 

She stuck her finger in her mouth and narrowed her eyes at Black. She resented having done the lion's share of the work, while he formulated ridiculous plans. But she reasoned that she was the one who'd lost Peter—so it was her job to find him. "So?" she raised her eyebrows in impatient inquiry. 

"It'll be tricky…we need to get into the castle." Black returned his judicious glare back to the school. 

Jude shook her head in disbelief and resumed poking through the underbrush. "Impossible. Everyone will be up soon." 

"Yeah, but…" he was looking across the grounds now to the Quidditch pitch. "I think it should be relatively empty for the good part of the day." 

She quickly left the bramble behind and took a seat next to Black, looking over the vista, hoping to be let in on the secret. He may actually have something.

"See those banners?" he pointed a thin finger at the stands which boasted bright banners of scarlet and gold, then green and silver. "There's a game today. And judging from how late it is in the year, I'd wager it's the final!" He stared at the sight of the colors flapping in the light breeze. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin…I bet no one would miss that game—the castle should be entirely deserted."

"Great…but what's in the castle that we need," Jude interrupted some thought of his. The far-off, serene look vanished in an instant. 

"A map."

***

They crept around the edge of the forest until they were on the opposite side from the Quidditch pitch. The castle was still silent. 

"We'll have to get in there before anyone wakes up, then lay low," Jude said, taking in every inch of the massive stone building with shrewd eyes. "Once everyone clears off for the game, then we can go after it." She paused then looked over her shoulder tentatively. "You do know where it is, don't you?"

"'Course." Black shrugged his shoulders. "It's in Filch's office. Filed under _Confiscated and Highly Dangerous_."

Jude turned quickly back to him and scowled. "Filch's? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm the one who lost it." He looked a little guilty.

"What the hell does it do? Blow up in your face?" Jude said incredulously.

"Even better!" Black replied, sounding like an excited child. Jude was highly amused, but this was serious business, breaking into Filch's. It had better be worth it. "It shows the location of anyone on the Hogwarts grounds."

Jude looked at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. "Anyone?"

Black nodded. 

"Why the hell didn't you come up with this earlier?" she said, turning back to the castle, clearly irritated. 

"Didn't think of it," he defended, but Jude was ignoring him. She was studying the castle, trying to remember the secret passages that link the outside to the inside. Then she remembered. The series of alcoves in the stone…the third one over…there was a hidden staircase that led to a passage behind the large mirror on the fourth floor. 

"There!" she said triumphantly, pointing to the entrance of her secret passage. "That's how we'll get in."

"Exactly what I was thinking." Black crouched beside her, staring intently at the point she'd indicated.

"You know it too?" She tried not to sound so put off. It was childish really, to expect that she was the only person in possession of Hogwarts' secrets. Still, she was jealous that another knew. This was _her_ Hogwarts, _her_ home.

"Course I do, they're all on the map."

"You idiot! You mapped out all the secret passages then lost the bloody thing to Filch? No wonder I had such a time trying not to get caught all those years." Jude was scowling at Black once again. She couldn't help being indignant, however. She shook her head. "Amateur." 

"Hey! I was no amateur! I was Hogwarts' best," Black said importantly. "You needed a password to see the map."

"Right." Jude decided not to egg him on further, even though she was sure he got more detentions than any other student…ever! Mischief making was an art to Jude, not something to take lightly, and not measured by how many times you were caught, but by how many times you succeeded in getting away. It took sly cunning, something she thought Black possessed in only small quantities. "Once we're inside, are we splitting up or staying together?"

"Hadn't thought that far," Black said lightly as if it were inconsequential. 

Jude rolled her eyes, visibly annoyed. "Typical," she sighed with a shake of her head. "Just like a Gryffindor…_okay, everyone on three_!"

"Hey, it always worked for me," he said, a little wounded. 

"We'll wait until the coast is clear, then find the map…together." Jude finished and looked to Black for approval. He nodded. "Ready, amateur?"

He narrowed his eyes and growled at her. But she'd already assumed the form of Crookshanks and was skirting the edge of the woods checking to see if the coast was clear. She turned back to Black who was now a large shaggy dog. She led the way and he followed.

***

"What do you mean it's not there?" Jude said, leaving her post at the door to look over Black's shoulder into Filch's filing cabinet drawer labeled _Confiscated and Highly Dangerous._ Whatever he was looking for, he seemed not to find it. "What does it look like?" she said, examining the biscuit that she'd transfigured into a galleon in her third year. It was passable, but a little rough around the edges—anyone experienced in counterfeit coins would be able to peg it as a fake, but most of her classmates were not experts on the matter. Apparently Filch was, however. Oh, well…at least it had never been traced back to her.

"It's a worn bit of blank parchment." Black was shuffling through various forged permission slips and what not. 

"Oh, no problem then," Jude spat contemptuously. "It'll be a cinch to find in this drawer full of worn bits of blank parchments."

"Damn it!" Black slammed the drawer shut. Jude barely had time to pull her fingers safely away from the metal. "It's not here." 

"Maybe your friend had the same bright idea you did," Jude postulated as she moved cautiously back to the door to check for unwanted visitors. 

Black spun around to face her, frantically glaring. At that moment, he did justice to all of the terrifying pictures of himself in the various papers. "What friend? Jude, what are you talking about?"

"An old school friend of yours has taken the Defense Against the Dark Arts position here. I can't remember his name, though." She shook her head. 

"Remus Lupin?" he asked cautiously.

Jude snapped her fingers. "That's it!" Just then, she heard the sounds of footsteps headed in their direction. She turned frantically toward the door. It was Filch approaching his office in little haste. "Look! We probably can't rely on him for help, if that's what you're thinking. You and I are the only ones who know about Peter…I haven't even told Dumbledore."

He nodded wearily, shoulders sagging a bit.

"Well, are you ready to run for it?" Jude called him back from his thoughts. 

"Yeah, let's have a little fun." Black returned to the form of the shaggy dog and charged out the door, knocking Filch off his feet and sending Mrs. Norris clambering up a statue of a grotesque goblin. The ginger cat streaked after him, leaving the bewildered caretaker and hissing henchman-cat in her wake.

***

Jude had returned to the familiar task of searching the grounds for any sign of Peter. Only now she worked alone—night and day. Black had taken the news of his friend pretty hard. Whatever he'd prepared himself for, it had been clear that he hadn't expected his last friend to aid in his hunt and recapture. That night, she had tried unsuccessfully to get him to help her find Peter and clear his name. He sat in his cave brooding, as he had for the past few weeks—ever since she'd made the mistake of telling him that bit of information. 

"Well, I don't give up that easily!" Jude bellowed to the shaggy man leaning against the wall of the cave, defeated. 

"Jude, you don't have to do this anymore. It's over. You're only putting yourself in unnecessary danger." He sighed heavily. "The dementors are getting restless. It's too risky."

She kicked the wall, frustrated. "It's almost daylight. I will find him…with or without you." She made to leave, but turned slowly to the man sitting with his head in his hands instead. "You know, Black, I've figured out that you're arrogant, proud and reckless…but I never would have pegged you as a coward." She left and didn't look back to see if her barbed words had hit their mark. 

***

The woods behind Hagrid's hut were thick and only minimal sunlight crept through the foliage. She could feel somehow that she was getting closer—Peter was nearby. An exhaustive search had turned up nothing on the right side of the clearing and the left side was beginning to seem just as fruitless. She'd lost track of the hours she'd spent digging through the brambles and thorn bushes, only to come up empty handed every time. Having abandoned her cat form forty or so minutes ago, she was now on hands and knees in the black dirt and decaying leaves. 

The day was growing hot as the sultry afternoon sun cast long shadows through the dark forest. She was grateful that a cool breeze had managed to penetrate the walls of the forest and smiled as she straightened her sore back. She needed a rest but could not justify one lost second now that she could feel she was getting closer to her goal. Her smile faded as the pleasant breeze became unbearably colder. Her breath caught in her chest as she turned around, against her better judgment, to face what she knew was behind her. 

A dementor towered above her, filling every spare inch of the clearing. Jude struggled to breathe, but felt the familiar and suffocating cold sweep over her. She was drowning. She squeezed her eyes shut against the inevitable sights. She knew she was going to see him again…staring at her in pain and disbelief. It was Rhys, his glorious eyes leveled at her with contempt—seeing her for the first time for what she was. He had left her at that moment—not after. It was there that she had lost him. He hadn't even given her a chance to explain, to say she was sorry and that she would never hurt him for anything. He was gone, leaving her to be tormented by this moment for eternity. This was her hell. 

The forest had long ago faded into blackness, and all she could feel was the acute, penetrating cold. She did not feel the slimy hands seize her by the collar and pull her upwards. Every happy memory she'd ever had—perfect moments she'd spent with Rhys—were ripped from her, twisted and turned into something ugly…he'd been happy with an illusion, not with her…she'd deceived herself. Those moments had been stolen—they belonged to someone else, and now it was time to pay. 

The swirling, howling sound of the wind filled her ears and sounded almost like the loud, booming barks of a dog. Was it a dog? It was getting harder and harder to focus on that sound, she was so distracted by the enveloping, blackness—the cold. Then she felt herself hit something—hard. The ground? Someone who was holding her up had dropped her on her wobbly legs, which collapsed underneath her. 

Someone was shaking her. "Get up, Jude! Get up now!"

She blinked back frigid tears that streaked her pale and sweaty face. She took huge, gasping breaths of air but still felt the unrelenting weight on her chest.

"Jude, listen to me now! Conjure a Patronus—it's our only chance." The voice beckoned her away from the darkness and back to the shadowed and warm clearing in a thick wood. She was being hauled to her feet. 

"What?" she managed weakly.

"A Patronus. NOW! I can't hold it off much longer without a wand." The voice sounded familiar—raspy, as if it hadn't been used in several years and was now only rediscovering its purpose. Black? Was that the voice? "Think of something happy. Come on."

He was shaking her violently by the shoulders. A happy thought? She didn't have one. It was as the darkness said…her perfect moments had been stolen…they didn't belong to her. 

She held out her left hand and thought hard of one of those marauded memories. She may have stolen them, but she would pay whatever price asked to have had just one such moment with Rhys. At that moment in time—a park, dusted lightly with snow…couples dancing…he was there…and she was with him. No! Not her—it was another her—the person she'd always wanted to be…that Jude was loved and adored…beautiful and…happy. 

That was not who she was now, but for that moment, she had everything. She focused on that, eyes closed, trying to emulate the feelings, the sights, the sounds of that one perfect evening. It must have worked, because a second later she heard the voice again.

"It's gone, but we can't stay here, it'll be back…it's seen me," Black sounded a little relieved, but anxious not to remain in that clearing. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to the edge of the forest. She was dazed—it felt as if she was recovering from a severe bout of the flu…a flu that made you hopelessly depressed. 

She tried to control her shaking, but it was a losing battle. Her eyesight was becoming less fuzzy, however, and she was grateful when the world came back into focus. The slanting orange rays of the sun, the dark shadows of the forest melting into the golden hues of the afternoon light. They were behind Hagrid's hut, just out of the cover of the forest. She was about to pull Black back into the cover of the forest, away from the exposed spot they stood in when she noticed something curious about ten or so yards in front of her. 

She pulled her arm from Black's loose grip and gasped, "It can't be."

A white rat, frightened and fleeing some threat with as much speed as he could muster, was streaking across the grounds, coming straight toward them.


	29. Stumbling

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this fiction and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. A big chunk of PoA was modified for this chapter, so any recognizable dialogue belongs to J.K. Rowling. 

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stumbling

_'Oh, look at how she listens_

_She says nothing of what she thinks_

_She just goes stumbling through her memories_

_Staring out on to __Gray Street_.____

_But she thinks "Hey,_

_How did I come to this?_

_I dreamed myself a thousand times around the world _

_But I can't get out of this place."_

_There's an emptiness inside her_

_And she'd do anything to fill it in_

_But all the colors mixed together_

_To Gray…'_

_Dave Matthews Band, '__Gray Street__'_

                "Promise me something," she said quickly, placing a restraining hand on his arm. They were both eager to get to Peter before he noticed them and fled again. 

                His piercing glare begged her to tell him what he was to promise. 

                "Whatever happens, don't give me away…please!" she implored him earnestly. 

                "But I can't do this myself, Jude. Harry will never believe me on my own." He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the rat as it scurried through the grass. 

                She closed her eyes and thought a moment, willing herself to think clearly. "I will be there, just as a cat. I can't be seen. It would be very bad." 

                He studied her for precious seconds. Peter could get away. Finally, Black sighed. "What is it you're running from?"

                She swallowed hard. "Let's just say that I'm almost as wanted as you are."

                He narrowed his eyes judiciously at her then nodded reluctantly. At that moment, they were interrupted by the sound of a boy's voice. It was Ron. 

                "How the hell did he get here?" Jude began as she watched the boy chase his pet rat. Her question was answered almost instantly as Harry and Hermione appeared, as if from nowhere. They'd used the Invisibility Cloak. 

                "Okay, let's go. I'll get Peter. You make sure Harry follows." Black was looking murderous. "He needs to know the truth about his father's death." He had a dangerous glint in his cold, black eyes. 

                "What makes you think he'll follow?" Jude asked, confused. 

                "He will. I have a plan and I'm counting on the fact that he's just like his father." 

                Jude nodded. In an instant she was bounding ahead of him toward the rat. 

                "Get away from him—get away—Scabbers, come here!" Ron was shouting and running furiously to free his rat from the large, ginger cat. There was a loud thud as Ron jumped, landing on both Peter and Jude. Peter was squeaking frantically. Jude made no sound but was madly fighting Ron for possession of the rat. "Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat—," 

                "Ron—come on—back under the cloak—," Jude could here Hermione panting, urging her friend to take cover. "Dumbledore—the Minister—they'll be coming back out in a minute—," 

                Jude snapped her furry orange head up and looked around, panicked. The Minister? She could have kicked herself! Hagrid's trial! He must have been there to witness the execution. Her grip on Peter slacked and Ron yanked him away, scrabbling for cover beneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak. 

                Jude felt the impact of the dog's paws heavily trampling the earth as he bounded for Ron. Jude watched as the enormous dog leapt at Harry, knocking him to the ground. The force of the leap, however, had carried Black over Harry and he rolled to a stop just in front of Ron. The dog sprang for him, fastening his jaws on Ron's shoulder. He was dragging him easily by his outstretched arm and Harry, grabbing large handfuls of the dog's fur, was still powerless to stop it. 

                "This was Black's plan?" Jude looked on in shock. She closed her eyes and swore under her breath. This was the best he could think of? He was going to have a hard time convincing Harry of his innocence after attacking his best friend. As she watched, she noted that Black was headed for the Whomping Willow. He pressed a knot on the trunk, having carefully navigated the furiously whip-lashing branches. She knew this passage. It ended in the Shrieking Shack. Her discovery of this tree's secrets had ended in two weeks of detention and a highly disappointed Dumbledore.

                Staring after them, Jude saw Harry and Hermione pelting along over the dark grounds toward the tree. Bounding along after them, she remarked that Ron was putting up a pretty good fight. He'd hooked a leg around one of the twisted roots of the malicious tree. The rest of his body had disappeared into the passage. Jude lurched to a stop, however, as she heard the snap. Black had broken Ron's leg and the boy had disappeared. Jude stood frozen to the spot, fighting revulsion. She knew Black was determined to see this done…she just didn't realize to what lengths he would go to. It was the glaring reality she was now faced with—Black cared little for anyone of these kids—he was thirsty for revenge…and for blood. She gritted her teeth in rage. Of all the stupid things he'd done, of all the times he'd broken her trust, she'd never been angrier with him. 

                "Oh, help, help!" Hermione's plaintive cries brought Jude out of her incensed reverie. Harry and Hermione were standing just out of reach of the whipping branches of the tree and both were bloody. "Please…"

                Jude slithered through the branches like a snake, quickly found the root and pushed. The tree froze as it turned to stone in an instant. 

                "Crookshanks!" Hermione whispered, cocking her head to one side, curiously.  She had a vice grip on Harry's arm as she continued to speak. "But how did he know?"

                "He's friends with that dog," said Harry, narrowing his eyes at her in unconcealed suspicion and distrust. "I've seen them together. Come on—and keep your wand out—," 

                Jude ignored the comments and slid into the passage with one swish of her tail. Black was right, Harry followed, just as suspected. Loyalty to friends was a strong bond, she guessed. There was no way to know—she wasn't the type to keep many friends. 

                Bounding swiftly and surely along the passage, Jude didn't look back. She knew they were right behind her by the faint beam of light at her tail. She could see into the depths of the blackness, however, and the light was necessary only for her two companions. In a few minutes, the path sloped slowly upward then twisted. It was an easy run for Jude, who quickly lost the other two. They were running in a crouched position and she could hear their heavy breathing further down the corridor behind her. 

                She leapt lightly into the dusty, pale-lit room. Stars were providing the only illumination but were sporadically interrupted by clouds. It was early in the evening and the moon was still a good hour or so off over the horizon, Jude wagered. The low light would make things difficult. 

                Jude smiled faintly. She'd promised these solemn, lonely rooms that she would be back someday. It was as she'd left it: furniture torn and rent to shreds, clouds of dust drifting about like the fabled specters, windows broken and boarded and doors torn from their hinges. She padded up the dusty, grimy and faded steps to the upper story, breathing in the forlorn and sad air of the place. 

                She found the room. Ron was leaning wearily against the bed, gritting his teeth in pain. Black stood opposite the boy, out of sight of the door. Jude glared murderously at the man as she leapt up onto a beautiful four-poster bed, covered in rich fabrics and a decade's worth of dust. She fought the urge to transform and comfort Ron as best as she could. He looked terrified and in much agony—he was clutching his leg with both hands and breathing unsteadily. 

                Still, she was no fool. It would have to be an extreme emergency to coax her out of her feline form. Black was no longer worth going to Azkaban for. She vowed to aid him in any way possible, short of revealing her identity. She settled onto the bed near Ron's head and purred loudly, hoping that her presence would be somewhat reassuring. 

                Unsurprisingly, a few moments later, Harry kicked the door open wide then raced over to Ron as soon as he'd seen him. Hermione followed a little more cautiously.

                "Ron—are you okay?" Harry bent down to examine his friend. 

                "Where's the dog?" Hermione asked. 

                "Not a dog," Ron moaned. "Harry, it's a trap—,"

                "What—," 

                "_He's the dog…he's an Animagus…"_

                Jude tensed as she watched the two startled kids turn to face the terrifying and formidable figure of Sirius Black. 

                "_Expelliarmus_!" she heard him croak, pointing Ron's wand at them. Their wands shot out of their grasps and Black caught them deftly in his free hand. 

                "I thought you'd come and help your friend," he said hoarsely. "Your father would have done the same for me." Jude closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. The pictures in the Daily Prophet came back to her. She saw James and Black laughing—they looked like brothers. It was a wonder Black had not placed her…surely he would have remembered her from the night James was killed. She shivered as she thought that all of this murderous intent should be leveled at her instead of Peter. True Peter had betrayed his friends, but if he was out to revenge James' murder, she was the one he was really looking for. She shook the thoughts from her head. That was a secret that would remain with her. She had followed orders…done as she was told. Peter had betrayed them—he was their Judas. "Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I'm grateful…it will make everything much easier…"

                Jude begged Black silently to get on with it. Harry was seething with anger and seemed to have taken the comment about his father as a taunt. Hermione seized his arms and held him back as the boy made a lunge at Black. "No, Harry…" she gasped in a frightened whisper. 

                Ron was struggling to get to his feet, wincing with every movement he made. Jude watched him cautiously as he stood shakily and faced the wanted criminal. "If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!" The effort seemed to drain him of still more color. 

                Black looked at Ron, then his eyes flickered to Jude. She met his stare with cold and calculating anger. He knew what she was trying to say. She willed him to quit dragging this out and get on with it. These kids didn't need to witness his self-destructive trip to the past. He needed to tell Harry what he came to tell him, kill Peter and be done with it all. She was tired of him making everyone suffer by prolonging this torture. "Lie down," he said quietly to Ron. "You'll damage that leg even more."

                "Did you hear me?" Ron persisted weakly. He was clinging painfully to Harry to remain upright. Jude wished he'd take Black's advice, but the boy was stubborn. "You'll have to kill all three of us!" 

                "There'll be only one murder here tonight," Black said and grinned a horribly sinister smile. Jude couldn't believe it…was he being obtuse on purpose? Why didn't he just _tell_ them he wasn't after them at all. This could be disastrous.

                "Why's that?" Harry spat, fighting Hermione and Ron's grasp. "Didn't care last time, did you? Didn't mind slaughtering all those Muggles to get at Pettigrew…What's the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?" Jude had to hand it to the kid—he didn't scare easily.

                "Harry!" Hermione whispered. "Be quiet." 

                "HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!" Harry roared, launching himself across the room. Jude's eyes widened in surprise as Harry fell on Black and pummeled ever inch of him he could find. The scene would have been comical had it not been so serious. A skinny, short thirteen year old was grappling with a ragged, deranged-looking man in a deserted house. There was a blinding flash as the wands in Black's sent sparks at the ceiling, just missing Harry's face. Hermione and Ron were screaming and yelling incoherently. It was chaos—no one was in control any longer. Jude leapt from the bed into the middle of the mayhem. 

                Black's free hand was around Harry's throat and he was trying furiously to push the kid off of him. "No," he hissed, "I've waited too long—,"

                Harry, glasses askew, fell away from the fray as Hermione's foot connected squarely with Black's chest, and he flew back against the wall. Ron seized his wand hand, causing him to drop the wands with a clatter. 

                Jude sprang after them, but Harry was reaching wildly from the tangle of bodies for the wands. 

                "Argh!" Harry yelled as he struggled upright. Jude sunk both sets of claws deep in Harry's arm. He threw her off, but she darted again, desperate to get to his wand first.

                "No you don't!" Harry roared, and aimed a kick at her. She jumped aside, spitting in anger. He snatched up his wand and aimed it at Black. "Get out of the way!" he shouted at Ron and Hermione. 

                They scrambled away from Black, Ron wincing as Hermione hauled him up by his arms. Her lip was bleeding, but she ignored it, scooping up her and Ron's wands. Ron collapsed on to the four-poster, panting, his face was alarmingly pale, and both hands clutched his broken leg.

                Black lay sprawled at the base of the wall, a bruise rising grotesquely around one eye and his nose was bleeding, adding more macabre decoration to Black's harsh appearance. His thin chest was rising and falling with ragged breath. Jude tensed as Harry walked slowly over to where he lay, stopping just in front of him and pointed his wand at Black's heart. "Going to kill me, Harry?" he asked without the slightest hint of fear.

                "You killed my parents," said Harry, his voice shaking slightly, but he looked quite calm. 

                Jude winced at the words. 

                Black stared back at Harry with a hollow glare. "I don't deny it." Jude couldn't believe what she was hearing. He was not responsible for either of their deaths and Harry deserved to know that much at least. "But if you knew the whole story." At that moment, Jude was thankful that she alone knew the whole story—the_ real_ whole story. 

                "The whole story?" Harry parroted, glaring contemptuously at the man at his feet. "You sold them to Voldemort. That's all I need to know."

                "You've got to listen to me," Black said, his voice laced with a sincere urgency. "You'll regret it if you don't…You don't understand…"

                "I understand a lot better than you think," Harry spat, his voice shaking more than ever now. "You never heard her, did you? My mum…trying to stop Voldemort killing me…and you did that…you did it…" Every accusation Harry laid on Black…they were her sins…she had heard his mother plead for her child's life. And it had been meager recompense that she had obeyed her pleas that night—she owed them all so much more. 

                Jude could not be still a moment longer. She streaked across the room and perched atop Black's chest—directly under the wand's deadly aim. Harry would have to kill the guilty party before he could kill Black. The situation had past the point of grave—she was staring down the tip of a wand, yet she could not bring herself to reveal her secret. She could not let them know that she had been involved. Under this boy's gaze, she would rather die anonymously than to have him know her guilt. 

                "Get off," Black murmured, trying to shove her off. She would not budge, however, and sank every claw into his shirt. She stared up at Harry, waiting for him to exact his revenge. Hermione heaved a small sob behind Harry. He raised his wand, his face stony and resolute. 

                An eternity passed in the space of a few seconds. Harry was frozen, staring down at the curious pair with a blank expression. No pity, no rage…just blank. Ron's ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. 

                Then another sound punctuated the silence. Muffled footsteps on the stairs echoing through the cavernous and lonely house. 

                "WE'RE UP HERE!" Hermione screamed suddenly. Jude did not take her eyes off Harry who remained still and unblinking. "_WE'RE UP HERE—SIRIUS BLACK—QUICK_!"

                Black jumped at the sound of Hermione's shrill cries. Jude was almost thrown to the floor and Harry made a startled motion as the footsteps thundered up the stairs. 

                The door burst open in a shower of red sparks. It slammed loudly against the wall. Jude craned her neck to see around it as it swung back on creaking hinges. There was a weary-looking man, pale and stunned, surveying the room. Jude recognized him at once—it was Black's friend, Professor Lupin. 

                "Shit!" Jude thought the instant she'd seen him. She knew he did not believe his friend was innocent and knew that their plan had failed. Game over.

                He surveyed the room shrewdly. His eyes lingered on Black a little longer than he'd spared on the others. Jude was perplexed, however, as his expression melted from tense worry to disbelief…even kindness. Finally, he looked at the curious cat crouching on the convict. His eyes narrowed as the squashed face of the cat met the stare evenly. 

                "_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted, expertly disarming a stunned Harry. Hermione and Ron's wands flew out of her grasp and joined Harry's in Lupin's outstretched hand. Harry looked shaken and disappointed—defeated even. Jude had the oddest thought that his disappointment was unwarranted. She knew that he would have a chance to right the wrongs committed against him in due time. He would someday have his revenge. Lupin moved into the room, still staring at Black and the curious cat still crouching protectively on his chest. "Where is he, Sirius?" he asked tensely.

                Harry stared at Lupin, confused. Black remained expressionless. For a few seconds, the room was still, no one moved at all. Then, Black raised a thin finger very slowly and pointed straight at Ron. 

                Harry turned to Ron, who shrugged his shoulders weakly, equally as mystified. 

                "But then…" Lupin muttered, staring so intently at Black it seemed as if he was trying to read his mind. "Why hasn't he shown himself before now? Unless…" Jude watched as the man's gray eyes widened suddenly, as if seeing something beyond the room, a place long ago forsaken but not forgotten. "Unless_ he_ was the one…unless you switched…without telling me?" 

                Black nodded slowly, his dull glare never leaving his friend's face. Jude was amazed at how fast Black's reckless abandon and disregard for his own life… his own freedom…was thrown aside. His friend's renewed faith in him had restored him. A faithful friend…it was something Jude could admire, but never understand. Yet all the same she was thankful for his influence, she could never have managed to effect such a change in Black. 

                "Professor," Harry interrupted the cryptic exchange, "what's going on?"

                But Harry fell silent as Lupin extended a hand to Black and helped him to stand. The cat jumped off of him and watched curiously as the two embraced like brothers. Harry stared, open-mouthed, in disbelief. 

                "I don't believe it!" Hermione screeched, shattering the silence like a hammer on fine crystal. 

                Lupin let go of Black and turned to face her, startled. She was pointing, wide-eyed and stammering. "You—you—,"

                "Hermione—," Lupin tried to calm her. 

                "You and him!" She was pulling herself to her feet with a little effort. 

                "Hermione, calm down—," 

                "I didn't tell anyone!" Hermione was shrieking frantically. Jude was alarmed. She hadn't the slightest clue as to what was going on and couldn't even venture a guess. She looked at Black to see if he shared their bewilderment. He didn't. He was looking at the floor and shaking his head. Jude watched the scene closer. The professor looked extremely tired and worn, but it was definitely the same man from the train, the same man from the Daily Prophet photos. Still, there was another memory that tickled at the back of her mind. She'd seen him somewhere else—he was smiling sadly in the memory. The eyes, there was something about his eyes. She shook the thought from her head. It was probably nothing at all, she reasoned as Hermione still protested shrilly. "I've been covering for you!"

                "Hermione, listen to me please!" Lupin shouted at her. "I can explain—," 

                Harry was shaking with ill-concealed fury. The situation she thought had been defused was beginning to spark again, she could feel the tension in the room rising. 

                "I trusted you," Harry turned to his professor and shouted. "And all this time you've been his friend." 

                "You're wrong," said Lupin, regaining some of his lost composure. "I haven't been Sirius' friend, but I am now—Let me explain…"

                "No!" Hermione yelled. "Harry, don't trust him, he's been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too—_he's a werewolf_!"

                The silence was unbearable. Jude couldn't believe what Hermione had just said. She looked at Lupin, who appeared relatively calm, all things considering. He turned quickly and cast a furtive glance at her as she stood unnaturally still next to Black. Jude cocked her head. He was so familiar. Yet the memory was impossibly distant, she could not grasp at it. 

                He shook his head ruefully and turned back to Hermione with that sad smile that taunted Jude. "Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione," he said. "Only one out of three, I'm afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don't want Harry dead…" He paused and Jude saw his shoulders sag almost unnoticeably. Yet she'd noticed. "But I won't deny that I am a werewolf." 

                Ron made a haphazard attempt to get to his feet then fell back on the bed, whimpering in pain. Jude started in concern, noticing that the professor had mimicked her movement as well. 

                "Get away from me, werewolf!" Ron gasped, clutching his leg weakly. Jude shook her head. It seemed unavoidable. None of them would escape with their secrets that night—every one would pay, she was now just waiting for her turn. 

                Lupin stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes once again met the cat's only for an instant before he quickly glanced away. With an obvious effort, he turned again to Hermione. "How long have you known?"

                "Ages," Hermione whispered. "Since I did Professor Snape's essay…" Jude raised her eyebrows with curiosity. How in the world did _he_ manage to mix himself up in all of this? It probably wasn't that hard, Jude mused darkly. 

                "He'll be delighted," Lupin said coolly. "He assigned that essay hoping that someone would realize what my symptoms meant…Did you check the lunar chart and realize I was always ill at the full moon? Or did you realize that the boggart changed into the moon when it saw me?" 

                "Both," Hermione answered weakly. 

                Lupin forced a laugh. "You're the cleverest witch of your age I've every met, Hermione." 

                "I'm not," she whispered. "If I'd been a bit cleverer, I'd have told everyone what you are!"

                "But they already know," said Lupin. "At least the staff members do." Jude smiled a little at the revelation. Dumbledore, ever fair, would never discriminate against someone for such a reason. Hell, he hardly cared about her black past, or Snape's for that matter. He acted as if it simply wasn't there. She guessed that was a big part of the reason she admired the man so much. 

                "Dumbledore hired you when he knew you were a werewolf?" Ron gaped at him. "Is he mad?"

                "Some of the staff thought so," he said. "He had to work very hard to convince certain teachers that I'm trustworthy—," 

                "And he was wrong!" Harry yelled. "You've been helping him all the time!" He pointed to Black, who crossed the room wearily and sank onto the bed. Jude leapt up beside him. Ron inched away painfully. Jude wished that everyone would just get to the point. She watched as Lupin tried to convince the boy with words that he was not a sinister creature working with Black to ensure their downfall. When words failed, he spoke with actions and handed them each their wands back. Jude was impressed. He held their attention better than Black had been able to. There was no free-for-all, a rough brawl where everyone got their share of bloody noses and black eyes. 

                "If you haven't been helping him," Harry said with a furious glance at Black, "how did you know we were here?" 

                "The map," said Lupin. Jude slunk into the shadows between Ron and Black. So he knew she was there as well. "The Marauader's Map. I was in my office examining it—," 

                "You know how to work it?" Harry asked suspiciously. Jude watched tentatively as he explained to Harry the origins of the map and his hand in its creation, awaiting the moment when he would give her secret away. It was only a matter of time, she thought ruefully. The rest of the conversation, something more about the map, Harry's Invisibility Cloak and his father…it was a blur to Jude. She was no longer heeding the words spoken in the room. She was waiting. 

                "Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid, and set off back toward the castle. But you were now accompanied by someone else." Jude tensed at Black's side, and he seemed to notice her anxiety. He placed a reassuring hand on her head momentarily. He knew what she feared. 

                "What?" said Harry. "No we weren't."

                "I couldn't believe my eyes," said Lupin, pacing the room, ignoring Harry's comment. "I thought the map must be malfunctioning. How could he be with you?" 

                Jude relaxed only minimally. 

                "No one was with us!" Harry said impatiently through gritted teeth. 

                "And then I saw another dot, moving fast toward you, labeled _Sirius Black…"_

                Jude's heart was beating wildly. Black was staring intently at his friend as he revealed the discoveries one at a time. 

                "I saw him collide with you; I watched as he pulled two of you into the Whomping Willow—,"

                "One of us!" Ron insisted angrily.

                "No, Ron," said Lupin. "Two of you." 

                He stopped pacing in front of Ron. "Do you think I could have a look at the rat?" Lupin said evenly, holding out his hand. 

                "What?" said Ron. "What's Scabbers got to do with it?"

                "Everything," said Lupin. "Could I see him, please?" Jude moved forward from behind Black. She wanted to see this. 

                Ron fished the furiously thrashing rat out of his pocket. He seized him by the bald tail to prevent his escape. Despite herself, Jude hissed. He was the cause of this entire mess—for the entire mess that had been her life. His information had allowed a ten-year-old girl to become a murderer. And no matter how many dreams she pursued, she would never escape this life. 

                Lupin stared at her curiously before moving closer to examine the rat. 

                "What's my rat got to do with anything?" Ron asked incredulously. 

                "That's not a rat," croaked Black suddenly. Jude started at the sound of his voice. 

                "What d'you mean—of course he's a rat—,"

                "No, he's not," said Lupin, intently staring at the creature. A thin smile played across his face. "He's a wizard." 

                "An Animagus," said Black, "by the name of Peter Pettigrew."

                After a tense silence, Ron blurted out, "You're both mental."

                "Ridiculous," Hermione agreed. 

                "Peter Pettigrew is _dead_!" said Harry. "_He killed him twelve years ago!" Harry pointed an accusing finger at Black. _

                "I meant to," Black growled, "but little Peter got the better of me…not this time, though!" He lunged for Peter, falling on Ron's broken leg and throwing Jude to the ground. 

                Jude watched, alarmed, as he grabbed for the rat. 

                "Sirius, No!" Lupin yelled, rushing forward to stop Black. "Wait! You can't do it just like that—they need to understand—we've got to explain—," 

                The professor's words struck Jude. He knew Black's intentions—he was going to kill Peter—and he was not going to stop him. Jude sighed heavily, she was clearly the minority—she didn't want to see anyone die tonight, but she would not be able to stop Black if he was determined. 

                She watched patiently as Lupin explained how Black and James and Peter had become Animagus out of duty to their friend after they'd discovered he was a werewolf. He presented quite convincing evidence that Peter had been the one to betray the Potters that night. He even confirmed Black's suspicions of how Peter had blown up half the block of a London street and sent twelve Muggles to their graves. Harry and Ron and Hermione countered as best as they could, but the evidence was so strong in the favor of Black's story, that it was irrefutable. 

                Jude watched as the weary man continued to protest one friend's innocence and another's guilt. The eyes once again caught her attention. Gray, like a stormy sky…sad and tired…weary of life. She studied the man's face until Black's voice broke her concentration. 

                "Hurry up, Remus," he snarled. He was watching Scabbers with a murderous hunger on his face. It frightened Jude. She would have to make the decision to put her ass on the line to save Peter, a very unworthy reason to spend the rest of her life in close quarters with hundreds of dementors, or to let him hang and burden her weary conscience. She waited in agony, watching their exchange closely.

                "I'm getting there, Sirius, I'm getting there…" Lupin continued his tale of how Harry's father and his closest friends had done something extraordinary… and highly illegal. Harry listened eagerly, still yet to make up his mind, but enraptured, nonetheless, to be hearing of his father. 

                "And all this year, I have been battling with myself, wondering whether or not I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn't do it. Why? Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant admitting that I'd betrayed his trust while I was at school, admitting that I'd led others along with me…" Jude had to admit, it was rough to have told Dumbledore that she'd hid the very same thing from him. "And Dumbledore's trust has meant everything to me. He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a job when I have been shunned all my adult life, unable to find paid work because of what I am." The story struck Jude. It was her own. "And so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the school using dark arts he learned from Voldemort," 

                No, Jude thought, using dark arts _I _learned from Voldemort.

                "That being an Animagus had nothing to do with it…so in a way, Snape's been right about me all along."

                "Snape?" said Black harshly, taking his eyes off Scabbers for the first time in minutes, glaring up at Lupin. "What's Snape got to do with it?" Jude had a pretty good guess. 

                "He's here, Sirius," Lupin said heavily. "He's teaching here as well." 

                "Professor Snape was at school with us," Lupin explained to his captive audience of four. "He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He has his reasons…you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick which involved me—," 

                Black made a derisive noise and Jude shot him a cold glare. Lupin explained the trick Black had played on him. No wonder he wanted Lupin out of Hogwarts. Of course, it hadn't been his fault, but Jude knew Snape to be a little less than reasonable on most occasions. 

                "So that's why Snape doesn't like you," Harry asked Lupin slowly. "Because he thought you were in on the joke?"

                "That's right," sneered a cold voice from the wall behind Lupin. Jude jumped in shock and surprise. She looked quickly around for the owner of the voice. She knew it well. It was Professor Snape.

                __


	30. Fair Is Foul And Foul Is Fair

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue is from PoA and is consequently the property of Rowling herself. The title of the chapter was snagged from Shakespeare's _Macbeth._

Author's Note: I have desperately tried to stay true to the plot of _Prisoner of Azkaban_, but some significant changes in plot were necessary for my story. I hope no integrity was lost along the way. And sorry, kiddos, for the delay—I have been grappling with the menacing end of term exams and term papers. But no worries! I will overcome and have two glorious weeks to do nothing but write. 

Thanks!  **Esperanza Fuega**: I'm glad you're enjoying it and sorry for making you cry! I apologize over and over again. But the mood only continues to go downhill from here—just a warning. **Tajuki**: as always, your praise and criticism is what gets this written—my reviewers should just forward all comments to you, I suppose! THANKS! You are the best beta reader a girl could have. **Mags**: thanks for your unyielding reviews. You never pass up the opportunity to make me smile! Thanks for all of your encouragement. Oh, and the answer to your question will be revealed shortly (next chapter, I think). Thanks again, everyone. 

Chapter Thirty: Fair is Foul and Foul is Fair

_'You're cold that way_

_And that's why you say_

_The things that you say_

_You can't attract _

_The things that you lack_

_You're trying in vain._

It seems it's always the crazy times 

_You find you'll wake up and realize_

_It takes more than your saline eyes_

_To make things right…'_

_Jars of Clay, Crazy Times_

                Jude stared unblinkingly at the familiar intruder, shifting her weight from paw to paw as nervous felines often do. This had fiasco written all over it.

                "I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow," Snape informed a rapt audience. The three children were staring, open mouthed, silent with surprise. Lupin, while betraying some hints of shock and anger mixed with fear, maintained his composure admirably. Black was clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. Jude gathered there was little love between the professor and the convict. "Very useful, Potter, I thank you…" His voice was icy, as one hand held Harry's Invisibility Cloak. In the other, Snape kept his wand pointed directly at Lupin's chest. Jude watched the tense scene with rising anxiety. 

                "You're wondering, perhaps, how I knew you were here?" His black eyes were glittering in the low light. He was enjoying this. "I've just been to your office, Lupin. You forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a goblet full along. And very lucky I did…" 

Jude continued to stare at him. Lucky? There was nothing lucky about any of this. Lucky would have been her getting to Peter before any of this could have happened. 

As if in answer, Snape amended his statement. "Lucky for me, I mean. Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know." Jude's breath caught in her chest. He couldn't possibly know she was there, could he? How long had it been since she and Black had passed through the secret passage and off of the map? "I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight." He was glaring at Lupin alone and seemed not to have marked the cat's presence at all. Jude relaxed, but only minutely. The situation still had the overwhelming potential to become a disaster. Her mind was reeling out scenario after scenario, trying quickly to come up with a plan that ended with everyone alive and none of them in Azkaban.

                "Severus—," Lupin began, but Snape silenced him, stepping closer and closing the scant distance between them, wand still at the ready.

                "I've told the Headmaster again and again that you're helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here's proof. Not even I dreamed you would have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout—,"

                "Severus, you're making a mistake," Lupin began urgently, trying in vain to convince him he was wrong. "You haven't heard everything—I can explain—Sirius is not here to kill Harry—,"

                Jude silently begged Snape to listen, but knew that it was futile to try convincing the professor of anything once he firmly believed he'd reached the correct conclusion. Still, Jude reasoned, someone's _life hung in the balance—Snape may not be entirely fair at times, but he would not send a person back to Azkaban if there was a reasonable doubt as to his guilt. _

                "Two more for Azkaban tonight," said Snape maliciously, his eyes gleaming with hideous fanaticism. What was the story here, Jude thought frantically. For hatred, he would sacrifice two people? It made no sense. "I shall be interested to see how Dumbledore takes this…He was quite convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin…a tame werewolf—," 

                "You fool," Lupin said softly, everyone's attention bent on his words. "Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?"

BANG! Jude lurched forward slightly from her perch on the bed, startled by the sudden noise. Thin cords burst from Snape's wand, wrapping voraciously around Lupin. Black sprang forward at Snape, but froze as the wand was now leveled at him, taking aim right between the eyes.

"Give me a reason," Snape whispered, a cruel smile spreading slowly across his face. "Give me a reason to do it, and I swear I will." Jude turned to Black, meeting his eyes with a trapped look. He was silently imploring her to do something. 

Jude glanced around the room in a panic. Harry stood, paralyzed and confused. Ron and Hermione looked equally as stunned. No hope there, Jude realized. She shook her head. It was worth it, she concluded. The risk of her remaining silent was greater than everyone discovering she was mixed up, inextricably and unexplainably, in all of this. Snape was not himself and Jude would not be able to handle it if she let something happen that she could have prevented. Afraid of what would be if she wasted another second in capitulation, she was about to leap from her safe perch when she heard an uncertain and breathless voice.

"Professor Snape—," It was Hermione. "It—it wouldn't hurt to hear what they've got to say, w—would it?"

"Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension from this school," Snape spat at her without turning his attention from Black. "You, Potter and Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your life, _hold your tongue_."

"Well," Jude thought, ready to put an end to this scene as she watched Hermione quell under the harsh admonitions of her teacher, "at least I can't be suspended." 

"But if—if there was a mistake—," Hermione continued her plea bravely. Jude was breathing heavily, hesitating for some unknown reason. She was a coward, and she knew it. Fighting with her thoughts, she tried to reconcile herself to disappointing Snape and the rest of the people who would be angry at her involvement in this affair. She wasn't sure how much Dumbledore had suspected as concerned her. She only told him that she was going after Black—she didn't even suspect at that time that she would end up aiding the convict. Her head swam with the confusion of it all. To hell with it, she thought. There was more at stake here than everyone's opinion of her. She would trade her freedom for Black's if it came to that. 

"Keep quiet, you stupid girl!" Snape shouted, now looking quite deranged. Hermione finally fell silent. "Don't talk about what you don't understand!" 

He turned his glare back to the man standing at the other end of his wand. "Vengeance is very sweet," Snape whispered. Jude watched, numb of every feeling, praying for some reprieve from what she was preparing herself to do. "How I hoped I would be the one to catch you…"

Black tensed. "Is that what this is about?" He was clenching his fists. "It is, isn't it? This is about _her." _

Snape stared coldly back at him, a ringing silence filled the room. He pressed the wand against Black's forehead. "No," he spat cruelly. "This is about _you." _

Jude furrowed her ginger brow, wondering in vain what that cryptic exchange was about. But, just as it had begun—startlingly swift—it had ceased to be discussed. Black was silent and Snape was scowling viciously at him. 

Finally, Black spoke. "The joke's on you again, Severus," he snarled, looking every part the ferocious dog. "As long as that boy brings his rat up to the castle," he said, jerking his head toward Ron—"I'll come quietly." Jude breathed a sigh of relief—everything would be settled if Snape granted Black this one concession. 

"Up to the castle?" Snape said silkily. "I don't think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the Willow. They'll be very pleased to see you, Black…pleased enough to give you a little kiss, I dare say…" Jude shivered. It was just talk, she was sure of it—he would never let three students see something like that—but Jude could not keep a cold and ill feeling from sweeping over her. 

"You've got to hear me out," Black croaked, the pale color draining from his dirty face. "The rat—look at the rat—," 

Jude saw a mad glint in Snape's eyes. Something was going on here that she was unaware of, something bigger than just anger over a mere practical joke—albeit, one that had gone severely wrong and had almost gotten one of them killed and another in serious trouble. 

"Come on, all of you," he said, looking around at all of the stunned faces. His eyes settled on the cat for only a fraction of a second, but Jude could see something in the mad glint—there was more, there was a reason for his behavior. 

Snapping his fingers, the ends of the cords that bound Lupin flew into his hands. Jude was impressed—it was an admirable show of skill—but it was colored by her disgust at the cruelty he was showing. "I'll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the dementors will have a kiss for him too—," 

Not if I can help it, Jude mused. With one paw raised to leap from the bed, she stopped dead when she saw Harry cross the room to block the door. 

"Get out of the way, Potter, you're in enough trouble already," Snape snarled. "If I hadn't been here to save your skin—," 

"Professor Lupin could have killed me about a hundred times this year," Harry shouted back at him defiantly. "I've been alone with him loads of times, having defense lessons against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why didn't he just finish me off then?"

"Don't ask me to fathom the way a werewolf's mind works," hissed Snape. "Get out of the way, Potter."

"You're pathetic!" Harry yelled. Jude was astonished—on many occasions, she'd wanted to give Snape a good verbal thrashing, but had never dared out of respect for his authority. It was odd, really—she held back her opinion for no one, but she had never been able to ignore a Hogwarts teacher's authority—even those she loathed, such as Astor or Vector. "Just because they made a fool of you at school you won't even listen—," 

"Silence! I will not be spoken to like that!" He narrowed his black eyes at Harry. Snape shook his head, his voice dripping venom. "Like father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck; you should be thanking me on bended knee! You would have been well served if he'd killed you! You'd have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you might be mistaken in Black—now get out of the way, or I will _make you. Get out of the way, Potter!"_

Jude watched as Harry raised his wand quicker than any of them could react. She had not noticed that Hermione and Ron had done the same until their voices added force to Harry's. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ they yelled together in perfect and terrifying synchronization. The blast made the door rattle on its brittle hinges. Jude was horrified as Snape slammed into the wall then slid down it to the floor, a trickle of blood ran scarlet from his black hair. He'd been knocked out by three thirteen-year-olds. 

"You shouldn't have done that…" Black said, looking absolutely shocked at Harry. "You should have left him to me…" Jude agreed that Harry had acted rashly—he would no doubt catch hell for it—but Jude eyed Black suspiciously as he glared murderously at Snape's prone form. 

Harry looked only a little remorseful for his actions. However, Hermione was frantic. 

"We attacked a teacher…We attacked a teacher…," she repeated, staring at her professor with frightened eyes. "Oh, we're going to be in so much trouble—," 

Black bent down to untie Lupin, who was struggling against the bonds. He straightened up, rubbing his wrists where the rope had cut into them. 

"Thank you, Harry," he said. 

"I'm still not saying I believe you," he snapped halfheartedly at Lupin. 

"Then it's time we offered you some proof," said Lupin officially. "Ron—give me Peter, please. Now." 

Ron clutched the rat to his chest as it struggled furiously. 

"Come off it," he said weakly. "Are you trying to say he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on _Scabbers_? I mean…" He looked up at Harry and Hermione for support, "Okay, say Pettigrew could turn into a rat—there are millions of rats—how's he supposed to know which one he's after if he was locked up in Azkaban?" 

"You know, Sirius, that's a fair question," said Lupin, turning to Black with a questioning stare. "How _did_ you find out where he was?" 

Black reached into his robes and took out a ragged, crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed flat and handed to Lupin.

Lupin smiled. "How did you get this?" He was thunderstruck. 

"Fudge," said Black. Jude felt her hair stand on end in unrestrained dislike. "When he came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page…on this boy's shoulder…I knew him at once…how many times had I seen him transform? And the caption said the boy would be going back to Hogwarts…to where Harry was…"

Ron eyed the paper skeptically and then returned his eyes to Black, even more skeptical. 

"My God!" said Lupin softly, yet with triumphant surprise. He was staring from Scabbers to the picture in the paper and back again. "His front paw…"

"What about it?" said Ron, determined to be defiant to the last. 

"He's got a toe missing," said Black. 

"Of course," said Lupin with a small smile. "So simple…so _brilliant…he cut it off himself?" _

"Just before he transformed," said Black. "When I cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to here that I'd betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of himself—and sped down into the sewer with the other rats…" 

"Didn't you ever hear, Ron?" said Lupin, mildly coaxing the boy to see reason. "The biggest bit of Peter they found was his finger." 

"Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat or something! He's been in my family for ages, right—," 

"Twelve years, in fact," said Lupin. "Didn't you ever wonder why he was living so long?" 

"We—we've been taking good care of him!" said Ron, growing angry.

"Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?" said Lupin. "I'd guess he's been losing weight ever since he heard Sirius was on the loose again…"

"He's been scared of that mad cat!" said Ron abruptly, nodding toward Crookshanks. Jude remained still and purred innocently on the bed. However, she betrayed an annoyed look at Ron. She noticed Lupin had once again resumed examining her with his enigmatic eyes. 

"This cat isn't mad…" Black said coarsely, never taking his eyes off of Scabbers…or Peter. "Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for it…" he continued. "This cat—Crookshanks did you call him?—told me Peter left blood on the sheets…I suppose he bit himself…Well, faking his own death had worked once…" 

Harry looked shocked beyond recovery. 

"And why did he fake his death?" Harry said furiously. "Because he knew you were about to kill him like you killed my parents!"

"No," said Lupin, "Harry—," 

"And now you've come to finish him off!"

"Yes, I have," said Black. Immediately Jude turned her head and stared furiously at him. He'd intended to kill him all along—how could she have been so foolish? It was ridiculous to want this man to have faith in justice—hell, she hardly had any faith left to call her own either—but she thought he at least wanted to make an _attempt at freedom. Black was looking evilly at Peter._

"Then I should have let Snape take you!" Harry shouted. 

"Harry," said Lupin hurriedly. "Don't you see? All this time we've thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and Peter tracked him down—but it was the other way around, don't you see? _Peter_ betrayed you mother and father—Sirius tracked _Peter_ down—,"

"That's not true!" Harry yelled. "He was their Secret-Keeper! He said so before you turned up. He said he killed them!" 

Jude swallowed hard as Black spoke, weary with guilt. "Harry…I as good as killed them. I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-Keeper instead of me…I'm to blame, I know it…The night they died, I'd arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he'd gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn't feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents' house straight away. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies…I realized what Peter must've done…what I'd done…" 

Jude tried to block the voice from her head. 

_Child, I give the duty to you. Kill him._

"Enough of this," Lupin's sharp voice broke off the terrifying memory of that night…the night that haunted Jude relentlessly…without hope of escape…that would continue to torture her until the end of her days…maybe after that…

"There's one certain way to prove what really happened. Ron, _give me that rat_."

"What are you going to do with him if I give him to you?" Ron asked tensely, still clutching the fiercely struggling Peter. 

"Force him to show himself," said Lupin. "If he really is a rat, it won't hurt him."

Ron hesitated, but finally relinquished the creature. The rat began squeaking without stopping, twisting and turning in Lupin's hands.

"Ready, Sirius?" said Lupin. Black already had Snape's wand at the ready.

"Together?" he asked quietly.

"I think so," said Lupin, holding the squirming rat tightly in one hand. "On the count of three. One—two—THREE!" 

A flash of blue-white light lit up the dark room. Jude watched eagerly as the gray rat fell and hit the floor. After another blinding flash, Jude smiled. 

Peter stood, cringing and wringing his hands in the middle of the room.

The short man glanced frantically around the room. He looked terribly frightened, but Jude knew not to be deceived—he was treacherous and clever. His friends had grossly underestimated him—easy enough to do, she admitted, remembering his scheming acts from when she was a child—but that was a mistake she would make only once, she promised herself as she watched him with a cautious and vigilant eye. 

He was breathing fast and shallow, his eyes darting to the door and back again. Jude narrowed her eyes, daring him to make a run for it. 

" Well, hello, Peter," Lupin said affably, as if they'd never ceased to be the closest of friends. "Long time, no see." 

"S—Sirius…R—Remus…" His voice was squeaky. "My friends…My old friends…"

Black's wand arm rose, but Lupin seized him by the wrist and shot him a warning look. 

"We've been having a little chat, Peter, about what happened the night Lily and James died. You might have missed the finer points while you were squeaking around down there on the bed—," 

                "Remus," Peter gasped, his face becoming paler and beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. "You don't believe him, do you? He tried to kill me, Remus…"

                "So we've heard," said Lupin blandly. "I'd like to clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if you'd be so—," 

                "He's come to try and kill me again!" Pettigrew squeaked. He was pointing furiously at Black, who leveled a cold, murderous glare at him. Jude smiled—Peter pointed with his middle finger, the index finger missing. "He killed Lily and James and now he's going to kill me too…You've got to help me, Remus…" 

                Lupin looked momentarily at Black. "No one is going to kill you until we've sorted a few things out."

                "Sort things out?" squealed Peter. "I knew he'd come for me! I knew he'd be back for me! I've been waiting for this for twelve years!" 

                "You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?" said Lupin. Jude was impressed—nothing passed this man unnoticed. He pegged every nuance of every word spoken—he would've excelled in law, had it not been for…

                "When nobody has ever done it before?" he continued. 

                "He's got dark powers the rest of us can only dream of!" Peter countered weakly, yet adamantly. "How else did he get out of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named taught him a few tricks!" 

                Black started to laugh mirthlessly. "Voldemort, teach me tricks?"

                Jude desperately wanted to insert a horrible dog joke here but reminded herself that it probably wasn't the right occasion. 

                Peter flinched at the name. Jude was slightly amused that, after all of these years, Peter still held the terrible reverence for his master's name. 

                "What? Scared to hear your old master's name?" said Black. "I don't blame you, Peter. His lot aren't very happy with you, are they?" Jude listened intently.

                "Don't know what you mean, Sirius—," muttered Pettigrew, breathing ever faster. 

                "You haven't been hiding from me for twelve years," said Black. "You've been hiding from Voldemort's old supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter…They all think that you're dead, or you'd have to answer to them…I've heard them screaming all sorts of things in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-crosser double-crossed them." Jude froze. She wondered what her fellows in Azkaban would say if they knew she had survived that night?

                "Voldemort went to the Potters on your information…and Voldemort met his downfall there. And not all Voldemort's supporters ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty out here, biding their time, pretending they've seen the error of their ways…If they ever got wind that you were still alive, Peter—,"

                "Don't know…what you're talking about…," said Peter again, more shrilly this time. Jude knew how he felt—she felt the same way now…like the walls were closing in, like she was a hunted animal. Black's words had struck more than one target in that room. 

                Peter wiped his face on his sleeve. Looking up at Lupin, he squeaked "You don't believe this—this madness, Remus—," 

                "I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty understanding why an innocent man would want to spend twelve years as a rat," he said evenly. 

                "Innocent, but scared!" squealed Peter. "If Voldemort's supporters were after me, it was because I put one of their best men in Azkaban—the spy, Sirius Black!"

                "I think I would have known if Black was one of Voldemort's spies, Peter." 

                Every head in the room snapped around at the sound of her voice. Tired of the arguments and determined to see Peter safe in custody and frantic not to let him slip through her fingers—as he was trying desperately to do, and seeming to succeed at it—Crookshanks had silently leapt off the opposite side of the bed. Emerging from behind the dusty damask was no longer the large, squash-faced ginger cat, but Jude—dirty and exhausted. 

                "Do you recognize me, Peter?" Jude walked around the bed, coming to lean against one of the posts, facing the squat man, only a few inches superior of her own height. "I recognize you…and that is usually never a good thing."

                The silence was electric—almost tangible. Every eye was fixed on the girl—bare feet, filthy and scratched, arms folded across her chest, weary eyes narrowed and unforgiving on Peter. In grimy jeans and her hair dull and dirty, she presented an appearance to rival the scruffy and sinister look of Black. 

                Peter remained silent. Jude ignored the rest and focused every attention on the man in front of her. "It was my duty to weed out the unfaithful, Peter. All spies were known to me—I kept my eye on them—I ensured their loyalty. And I condemned the double-crossers—as you put it, Black." 

                She chanced a minute glance in Black's direction. His expression was pained—he was either sorry that she had revealed herself on his behalf, or he was kicking himself for having accepted, however unknowingly, the help of a former Death Eater. She forced herself to look away and to focus on Peter, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. 

                Peter stared in astonishment at her, trying to retain the air of confusion. 

                Jude sighed. Rolling up one grimy sleeve, she hesitated then removed a wide, silver band wound around her left wrist. She held her arm out at her side—the mark was unmistakable, undeniable. The effect was perfect. 

                "You!" Peter whispered, betraying the recognition. 

                "Yes, Peter. Me. The Sparrow. I sang the praise or the damnation of every person under Voldemort's power." 

                Jude noticed that Ron had recoiled, dragging his wounded leg across the bed, inching farther from her. She paid no heed. They could see what they want to, but she had a mission. Jude always got her man. 

                "It can't be…you're dead!" Peter gasped. 

                Jude smiled sinisterly. "As you can see, Peter, I am not." She replaced the bracelet on her left wrist and crossed her arms once again. "I am quite hurt that you would wish so, however." Her face was blank, no sign that she was, in fact, hurt by this—her features remained emotionless. "So, tell me, Peter—if Black was one of Voldemort's best men, why haven't I ever spoken to him until Halloween—this past year?" 

                Peter remained flabbergasted, unable to speak. 

                "Black was never a spy…he was never a follower of Voldemort…But _you_ were." 

                "Lies…she is lying…Kill her! She admitted it…she is a Death Eater," Peter began shrieking. 

                Jude looked around. She had rather condemned herself, hadn't she? Yet no one moved—no one reached for a wand to hex her into oblivion. Black was staring at the ground, Remus' eyes were fixed on her and his face was extremely pale. The kids looked a little dazed, but she was aware that they already knew a little about her from her escapades during Harry's first year. She assumed Harry had told his friends everything that had happened then. 

                Black finally broke the silence. "It was you…you were the little girl…that night…when James and Lily…" 

                Jude looked at him and nodded solemnly. "I was there. With Voldemort…I was ten years old then." 

                "See? She's the one you want—not me… not me!" Peter was yelling frantically. 

                "Quiet!" Black bellowed at Peter. "I will not kill her…she saved Harry that night…made sure he was safe with Dumbledore. For that alone I owe her my life." 

                Jude hung her head at this. If he only knew…

                "Then she helped me hunt you down. She wanted to set me free…" Black finished, staring oddly at Jude. Gratitude mixed with a thousand unanswered questions. 

                She knew she had a lot of explaining to do. "I joined Voldemort when I was only seven years old…He looked after me when I had no one…it's not an excuse, I don't want to make an excuse for what I was a part of…but that night…I couldn't do it anymore…" Her voice was shaking and she tried mightily to restrain her fear and guilt. 

                "Dumbledore let me stay at the school…he gave me a second chance." Jude glanced momentarily at Lupin, noting that those haunting eyes still looked annoyingly familiar. And she was relieved—he seemed to understand. "Black deserved a lot more than I had been given. I deserved his lot…I deserve Azkaban. He doesn't. I chose my path…his was governed by the lies of another. Peter," Jude returned her piercing stare to the short man. "What goes around, comes around. Somehow, I think you knew this would all come back to bite you in the ass."

                Peter sputtered. "I am no spy…I would never…"

                "One more thing, though…" Jude continued, ignoring his protestations. "You've been living as a rat with this boy for twelve years, and besides the fact that that's incredibly pervy, it is highly suspicious." Jude took a step away from the bed and towards Peter. "Why? Why a wizarding family? Keeping your ear to the ground? Hoping for news from Voldemort?" she questioned scathingly. "What's in it for you, Peter? You could have killed Harry a hundred times by now. Why didn't you?"

                "I'll tell you why," Black answered in Peter's stead. "Because he never did anything for anyone unless he could see what was in it for him. Voldemort's been in hiding for fifteen years, they say he's half dead. You weren't about to commit murder right under Albus Dumbledore's nose, for a wreck of a wizard who'd lost all of his power, were you?" Black glared murderously at Peter. "You'd want to be quite sure he was the biggest bully on the playground before you went back to him, wouldn't you? Why else did you find a wizarding family to take you in? Waiting for your old protector to regain strength, and it's safe to rejoin him…"

                Peter open his mouth and closed it several times, giving him the appearance of a fish out of water. 

                Black turned to Harry. "Believe me, Harry. I never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died before I betrayed them." 

                Jude watched, flooded with relief as Harry nodded. She smiled weakly at Black, who looked wearily overjoyed. 

                Peter had fallen on his knees at the nod that condemned him. 

                "No!" he pleaded, hands clasped in front of him. "Sirius—it's me…your friend…you wouldn't…you wouldn't believe her over me…" 

                Black kicked out and Peter recoiled. 

                "Remus!" Pettigrew squeaked at him in turn imploringly. "You don't believe this…wouldn't Sirius have told you they'd changed the plan?"

                "Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter," said Lupin. He turned to Black. "I assume that's why you didn't tell me, Sirius?" It was casual, without any malice. Jude was unfamiliar with this kind of friendship…one that could survive such suspicion and mistrust, coming out unscathed in the end. It was completely alien to her. The only friendship she'd ever had even resembling this had not survived her lies. 

                "Forgive me, Remus," said Black. 

                "Not at all, Padfoot, old friend," said Lupin, clearly elated to be able to call his companion by his nickname once more. "And will you, in turn, forgive me for believing you were the spy?" 

                "Of course," said Black, and the shadow of a grin crossed his face. They had both rolled up their sleeves…

                Like executioners, Jude thought in a macabre way. 

                "Shall we kill him together?" Black looked to Lupin, asking the question lightly. 

                "Yes, I think so," said Lupin grimly. 

                Jude was glued to the spot. She seemed to have momentarily lost the power of speech. Her tension melted, however, as she saw Peter dart out from under the wand. "You wouldn't…you won't…" He scrabbled over to Ron. "Ron…haven't I been a good friend…a good pet? You won't let them kill me, Ron, will you…you're on my side, aren't you…" 

                Jude pried her feet from their spot and rushed over to the bed where Ron lay pale and livid, being fawned over by the sniveling little man. She placed herself between Peter and the boy he was addressing, her glare was harsh and cold and immovable. Resting a hand on Ron's shoulder to keep him from jumping up out of anger, Jude was mildly surprised that he did not recoil from her this time. 

                "I let you sleep in my _bed_!" Ron yelled.

                "Kind boy…kind master…" Pettigrew crawled toward Ron, "You won't let them do it…I was your rat…I was a good pet…" 

                Jude snorted with mock amusement. "If you made a better rat than a human, Peter, it's not much to brag about," she said scathingly. Peter scowled menacingly at her.

                "Your time will come." His voice was a whisper. "We will have our revenge. They speak of my treachery, of my betrayal. You can't hide much longer. Voldemort will not be defeated by a little girl." Jude eyed him with cold hatred as he finished his address full of portent for her. He turned to Hermione as his next choice of benefactor.

                "Sweet girl…clever girl…you won't let them…Help me…" 

                Jude smiled ruefully as Hermione snatched the hem of her robes away from Peter and backed against the wall, looking utterly horrified. 

                Pettegrew finally knelt before Harry. 

                "Harry…Harry…you look just like your father…just like him…" 

                Jude stepped forward a little as Black shouted. "How dare you speak to Harry?" he roared. "How dare you face him? How dare you talk about James in front of him?" 

                Jude was numb—she didn't know what to think. This should be her…on her knees in the middle of a dank room…pleading for her life…she had done almost the exact crime he was being reproached for…yet she remained silent.

                "Harry," whispered Pettigrew, shuffling over to him. "Harry, James wouldn't have wanted me killed…James would have understood, Harry…he would have shown me mercy…"

                From the bed, Jude watched as both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized Peter and threw him back onto the floor. 

                "You sold Lily and James to Voldemort," said Black, shaking. "Do you deny it?"

                He glanced sidelong at Jude. She stared back, unmoving and unfeeling.

                Peter burst into tears. "Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord…you have no idea…he has weapons you can't imagine…I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me—," 

                "Don't lie!" bellowed Black. "You'd been passing information to him for a year before Lily and James died! You were his spy!"

                "He—he was taking over everywhere!" gasped Pettigrew. "What was there to be gained by refusing him?"

                "What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" said Black, his fury unrestrained. "Only innocent lives, Peter!" 

                "You don't understand!" Peter whined. "He would have killed me, Sirius!" 

                "Then you should have died!" Black roared. "Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!"

                Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the door, wands raised. 

                "You should have realized that if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter." Lupin said with eerie, unfeeling politeness that was ill suited to him marking every word. 

                Jude watched unblinkingly. She then realized that it was not her place to stop this. They deserved their revenge. 

                "No!" Harry yelled, breaking Jude's weary trance. "You can't kill him," he said breathlessly. "You can't."

                Black and Lupin exchanged confused glances. Jude furrowed her brow. 

                "Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," Jude closed her eyes and sighed. Every word stung like a knife, slicing her already thin and abused soul. Black snarled further. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family." 

                "I know," Harry panted. "We'll take him up to the castle. We'll hand him over to the dementors…He can go to Azkaban…but don't kill him." 

                "Harry!" gasped Pettigrew, flinging his arms around Harry's ankles. "You—thank you—it's more than I deserve—thank you—," 

                "Get off me," Harry spat, throwing Pettigrew's hands off him and striding out of his reach. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because—I don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers—just for you." 

                The silence was thick, interrupted only by Peter's ragged, despairing breaths. 

                Black broke it finally. "You're the only person who has the right to decide, Harry," he said. "But think…think what he did…"

                "He can go to Azkaban," Harry repeated with force. "If anyone deserves that place, he does…"

                "Very well," said Lupin. "Stand aside, Harry."

                Harry hesitated. 

                "I'm going to tie him up," said Lupin. "That's all, I swear." 

                Harry stepped out of the way, just as thin cords sprung from Lupin's wand and entwined themselves around Peter, who was soon bound and gagged and wriggling on the floor like an overgrown worm. 

                "But if you transform, Peter," growled Black, leveling his wand at Pettigrew still, "we _will_ kill you. Agreed, Harry?" 

                Harry nodded seriously. 

                "Right," said Lupin, suddenly businesslike. He walked over to where Ron lay, pale and tired, on the bed. Jude got up immediately and relinquished her spot next to the boy. "Ron, I can't mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey, so I think it's best if we just strap your leg up until we can get you to the hospital wing." 

                Jude listened to Lupin as he bent over Ron's leg, bandaging it the best he could. Even his voice was familiar—calm, but with a hint of sadness behind the kind tone. She shook her head, kneeling next to the prone form of Professor Snape. It was all in her head, she reasoned, examining the small cut at the professor's hairline. That was going to be one nasty headache when he woke up. 

                "Do you think we'll get expelled for that?" 

                A shaky and uncertain voice caught her attention. She looked up into Hermione's frank and inquiring face, a bit startled to be addressed by the girl. 

                "No," Jude said with an exhausted shake of her head. "He was asking for it anyway." She smiled, but Hermione was still frowning, frightened. 

                "Look, I'm sorry I lied to you…I didn't intend to trick you, but it was the best plan I could come up with…I'll make it up to you…" she said, hoping to cheer the girl up a little. 

                She merely nodded and moved to stand next to Harry, who was staring at her with an unreadable expression. Jude could not bear it and avoided his eyes. 

                Black came to kneel next to her. "You three did a good job on this one."

                Jude shot him a venomous look. "That's a friend of mine you're talking about, Black." Jude said, too tired to sound like she meant it. 

                "Well, what do we do with him?" Harry cut in. 

                "There's nothing seriously wrong with him," said Lupin, examining him over Jude's shoulder. He checked the unconscious man's pulse. "You were just a little—overenthusiastic. Still out cold. Er—perhaps it will be best if we don't revive him until we're safely back in the castle." He directed the last part of his sentence to Jude. 

                She nodded, agreeing one hundred percent. She needed time to think about what the hell was to happen next. 

                "We can take him like this…" He muttered the word and Snape was pulled into a standing position. 

                Black announced that two of their number should be chained to Peter. Lupin and Ron took up the commission—both looking morose, they were cuffed to the loathed man. Ron seemed to be taking his rat's secret as a personal insult, and stared resolutely and firmly ahead. 

                "Come on, Severus," Black said to the oblivious figure. He made no effort to avoid running him into the doorframe. 

                On the landing of the creaking and dusty stairs, Jude turned to Black and gave him a withering glare. "Play nice, Black. I mean it." 

                "Yes, madam," Black croaked officially. 

                Jude leapt lightly down the stairs, once again in the form of a large ginger house cat. She reckoned it would be harder for those behind her to ply her with questions if she were not able to answer them. So, silently and absorbed in her own thought, Jude led the freakish processional back into the passage, heading for the castle. __


	31. Loaded Guns

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Rowling owns everything. Like God, these are her perfect creations which I, like Satan, corrupt for my own pleasure. I am making no money from this and I did not intend to break any sacred copyrights. Please forgive, for there is no hope of reform.

Author's Note:  Nearing the end, kids. PoA is almost done—yippee. This chapter will be blissfully short after that long bitch of a chapter, no. Thirty! Enjoy.

Chapter Thirty-One: Loaded Guns

_'You've only had to run so far_

_So good_

_But you will come to a place_

_Where the only thing you feel_

_Are loaded guns in your face_

_And you'll have to deal with_

_Pressure.'___

_Billy Joel, Pressure_

                Padding swiftly down the claustrophobic passage, Jude tried to keep her mind off the inevitable—condemnation from the Ministry. She could remain a cat until the storm blew over, pretending she had nothing to do with the escaped convict and this whole scene. Black was a sure bet—he would never reveal her secret, she knew that instinctively. Lupin and the kids were another story…they could go either way. But Peter…he was the damning witness. He was to be handed over as soon as they reached the castle. And once there, he would make sure that she went down with him. 

                They'd all seen…she'd shown them…they knew, irrevocably, who and what she was. There was no turning back. Of course, she could run for it…but that wasn't in her. She may not have some ingrained need to prove herself heroically at every turn, but she knew she couldn't cower to anyone…especially not to the Ministry. 

                "You know what this means?" Jude heard Black speaking to Harry as they brought up the tail end of their little parade. She turned her attention to them, trying to think on her situation as little as possible. "Turning Pettigrew in?"

                "You're free," Harry answered quietly.

                "Yes…" Black intoned rather cautiously. "But I'm also—I don't know if anyone ever told you—I'm your godfather."

                "Yeah, I knew that," said Harry blandly.

                "Well…your parents appointed me your guardian," Black persisted, even though his voice betrayed the disheartened feelings he was struggling with. "If anything happened to them…"

                Harry was silent.

                "I'll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle," said Black morosely. "But…well…think about it. Once my name's cleared…if you wanted a different home…" 

                "What—live with you?" Harry said abruptly. Jude felt Black's disappointment acutely—she knew how he must feel. "Leave the Dursley's?"

                "Of course, I thought you wouldn't want to," Black conceded quickly. "I understand, I just thought I'd—," 

                "Are you insane?" Harry cried in the thick, dark silence. "Of course I want to leave the Dursley's! Have you got a house? When can I move in?" 

                Jude stopped and turned. Black looked in startled awe at the boy by his side. 

                "You want to?" Black said, scarcely trusting what he'd heard. "You mean it?" 

                "Yeah, I mean it!" Harry said excitedly.

                Black's face broke into a genuine smile—one that seemed completely natural and suited to him in every way. In that moment, he resembled the happy and carefree person in the wedding picture Jude had seen in the Prophet. For that, Jude decided, anything she faced on the other side of this passage was worth it. 

                The path began to slope upward. Jude darted up and out of the Willow, ducking the violent lash of the branches and freezing the tree for the rest of the party. It was now dark outside.

                As the others clambered out, Jude looked up at the castle across the grounds. The castle lights glowed warm and inviting through the inky black. The only sound in the still night was Peter's wheezing and occasional whimper, but none of the others made a noise. 

                "One wrong move, Peter—," Lupin's clear warning broke the brittle silence. Jude glanced back, her feline eyes taking in the weary professor with wand still leveled at Peter's chest threateningly. 

                Then it happened. 

                The grounds were suddenly illuminated in a pale, milky light. It was a full moon. 

                Jude's eyes darted immediately to Lupin. He'd stopped rigidly, causing Snape to collide with Ron and Peter. Black froze. Flinging one arm straight out, he caught Harry and Hermione. 

                "Run," Black whispered to Harry. "Run. Now."

                Jude was on her bare, human feet in no time, her heart beating faster, her eyes searching Black for instructions. Ron was chained to Peter and unable to get away. 

                Harry darted forward, apparently noting what had captivated Jude's attention. He did not want to abandon Ron. Black caught him around the chest and shoved him back.

                "Leave it to me—Run!" Black bellowed at the kids, then turned to Jude. She was at Ron's side. "You, too. I'll handle it." 

                Jude crossed her arms and planted her feet firmly. "I'm not leaving him."

                The night was rent with a snarling. Lupin was transforming swiftly, and to Jude it seemed, painfully. 

                In a second, Black was the familiar shaggy dog. The werewolf reared and snapped. Shoving Ron behind her, Jude took a defensive stance between Lupin and the boy. 

                It snarled and lunged forward. Jude stepped back just as the enormous dog leaped onto the werewolf, hauling it back a few feet, jaws locked around its neck. They were grappling, jaw to jaw, claws tearing into the other—

                Over her right shoulder, Jude glanced and saw Harry and Hermione watching the battle, transfixed by the action. They shouldn't be here, she thought momentarily. It was too dangerous. She saw Hermione scream, staring at something beyond Jude. 

                Turning a fraction of a second too late, Jude saw Peter…wand in hand trained on her. In a flash, she raised her left arm furiously…but Peter was quicker. She saw a bright light accompanied by a deafening bang…then black.

***

                An inky expanse spread before her eyes. Dots of white light danced in front of her…blinking would not scatter them…they remained in the forefront of her vision stubbornly. 

                Slowly, painfully, Jude lifted her head. The stubborn dots, she realized, were stars. She was lying on the ground…outside…at night. And in a frenzied moment, the past events replayed themselves in her mind.

                Frantically, she gained her feet, looked around and saw that she was alone. No, not truly alone…Ron was lying in a heap on the ground, breathing, thankfully, next to where she had been unconscious for…she had no clue. Professor Snape was still floating freakishly where Black had left him. No sign of any of the others, however. 

                Wasting no time, Jude strode over to Snape, his head lolling ridiculously, snapped her fingers and the invisible cords holding him aloft severed. He dropped with an audible thud to the ground. 

                The impact was enough to jar the professor from his stupor caused by the overzealous efforts of three certain students. Jude tugged him to his feet as he mumbled a demand for an explanation.

                "Later," she silenced him. "Listen, I have to go after Peter. Find the others and take them up to the castle."

                 She shook her head impatiently at the questioning look she received as response. "I can't explain now." And without further time wasted in vain efforts to persuade the baffled man to do as she asked, she raced off with all the speed she could coax from her exhausted limbs. 

                Crashing headlong into the underbrush, she felt the weight of the certainty she faced. She would never find him—he had escaped. Still, she could not stop her frantic thrashing through the bushes around her. 

                Running further, her breath was coming in ragged and labored gasps. She forced her legs to carry her just a little farther into the forest…just a little more…

                A twig snapped audibly under her foot and she felt the sharp pain as the rough wood punctured the bare skin. 

                "Damn it!" she panted angrily, falling on her knees in the middle of the dark, damp forest. Wrapping her fingers, slick with cold sweat, around the twig, she yanked hard, wrenching it from her foot. Yelling with excruciating pain, she flung the stick off into the blackness. "Damn you, Peter!" she screamed furiously, hoping vainly that her voice would reach him. 

                Everything was fucked up, Jude thought miserably. She and Black were screwed. Struggling to her feet, she put a little weight on her foot and flinched as the acute pain shot up her leg. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to walk, despite the pain. Retracing her steps, she made up her mind—she had to get back to the castle.

                Black was innocent—and she could testify to that. The question was…who was going to believe her? Still, she had to try…even if it meant both she and Black would wind up as cell mates in hell. 

                Limping, she reached the stone steps of the entrance. Summoning all the strength and resolve that remained to her, she pushed the heavy doors open and walked in. 

                The entrance hall was dark, but light shone from several corridors. She logically thought to go to the hospital wing—that's where Snape would have brought the children, and that's probably where Dumbledore was. 

                She approached the doors with trepidation, and with pain, but stopped short of wrenching them open and going in. There were several voices coming from within.

                "Shocking business…shocking…miracle none of them died…never heard the like…by thunder, it was lucky you were there, Snape…" The voice made Jude freeze. She knew exactly to whom it belonged—Fudge. 

                "Thank you, Minister," was the abrupt and slightly agitated voice of Professor Snape. 

                "Order of Merlin, Second Class, I'd say. First Class, if I can wrangle it!"  
                "Thank you very much indeed, Minister." He sounded preoccupied to Jude and Fudge was coming dangerously close to putting him in ill humor. 

                "Nasty cut you've got there…Black's work, I suppose?" 

                "As a matter of fact, it was Potter, Weasley, and Granger, Minister…"

                "_No!" _

                "Black had bewitched them, I saw it immediately. A Confundus Charm, to judge by their behavior. They seemed to think there was a possibility he was innocent. They weren't responsible for their actions. On the other hand, their interference might have permitted Black to escape…" Her breath caught in her chest—he'd been captured. Frantically, she listened for more information…it may, in fact, be too late…she shook the thought from her head quickly and bent her concentration on the exchange. "They obviously thought they were going to catch Black single-handed. They've got away with a great deal before now…I'm afraid it's given them a rather high opinion of themselves…and of course Potter has always been allowed an extraordinary amount of license by the Headmaster—," 

                "Ah, well, Snape…Harry Potter, you know…we've all got a bit of a blind spot where he's concerned." 

                "And yet—is it good for him to be given so much special treatment? Personally, I try and treat him like any other student. And any other student would be suspended—at the very least—for leading his friends into such danger. Consider, Minister—against all school rules—after all the precautions put in place for his protection—out-of-bounds, at night, consorting with a werewolf and a murderer—and I have reason to believe he has been visiting Hogsmeade illegally too—," 

                "Well, well…we shall see, Snape, we shall see…The boy has undoubtedly been foolish…

                "What amazes me most is the behavior of the dementors…," Jude heard Fudge continue. "you've really no idea what made them retreat, Snape?"

                "No, Minister…by the time I had come 'round they were heading back to their positions at the entrances…"

                "Extraordinary. And yet Black, Harry, and the girl—," 

                "All unconscious by the time I reached them. I bound and gagged Black, naturally, conjured stretchers, and brought them all straight back to the castle." 

                Jude closed her eyes and shook her head ruefully. Snape had found Black and had delivered him into the grateful hands of the Minister, feeling free to give his slant on the events as the undisputed truth. Taking a deep breath, she flung the doors wide. 

                The door hit the wall with a loud bang. The Minister, standing nearest the door with garish bowler hat in hand, jumped as he heard the noise. His startled astonishment only increased as he saw who had caused the interruption. 

                Professor Snape leaned carelessly against a window across the room, staring out into the black night. He turned abruptly as the door crashed open. His face remained aloof as he saw Jude enter, but she saw the anger in his eyes. 

                "Black is innocent, Minister. I have proof." Jude hobbled into the room, cursing herself for not being able to mask her injury better. She could not afford to appear weak now. 

                "Elliot!" the Minister stammered. "I should have known you would be mixed up in all of this." He was glaring ferociously at her. She did not back down under the stare, however, and seemed emboldened by his anger. "So, come to set your faithful henchman at liberty?"

                "He is innocent, Minister. I have been tracking him ever since I heard of his escape. I thought it was odd that I had not been familiar with the man before…even though…if he is what you say he is…shouldn't I have known—,"

                Fudge had been trying in vain to regain his monopoly on the conversation. Professor Snape had abandoned his post at the window, where apparently, he was watching for sign of her. 

                "Explain, now!" Professor Snape commanded harshly.

                She turned her glare from Fudge to the professor. Then she resumed. "I came across another…Peter Pettigrew is alive, sir. And I do know for a fact that he was in Voldemort's service for a year before Black was imprisoned for the murder of Lily and James Potter. I know for a fact he wasn't guilty…and Peter faked his own death…after he killed that street full of Muggles—," 

                "This is absolutely ludicrous." Fudge was pacing by the door, staring with open hostility at Jude while she narrated tensely. 

                "Pettigrew is dead, Jude. You have no proof to the contrary…except for your word." Snape's voice was cold. She stared unblinkingly at him…he didn't believe her…it was the first time…ever.

                "I saw him tonight…and so did Black, Lupin and the kids. He confessed." Jude was clenching her fists at her side, shaking with rage and exhaustion. 

                "That is absurd. I was in the shack, Jude. I saw everyone who was there—and Pettigrew was nowhere to be seen," Snape bit off the words harshly.

                "I was there as well. But you didn't see me," Jude said with satisfaction as Snape's cold expression faltered. The two were silent. He couldn't guess how she'd escaped detection—she would have to clarify. "The cat, professor. That was me." 

                His expression melted from confusion into anger once again. She had not noticed that Fudge had produced his wand and leveled it at her chest. 

                "An illegal Animagus on top of aiding an escaped convict," the man shrieked, stepping closer to Jude. 

                "Listen, Minister! Peter escaped! We need to look for him…he's the one your after!" Jude raised her hands in benign surrender, showing she intended no harm. 

                "I should rely on _your word?" Fudge spat maliciously._

                "You've got the _wrong man!" Jude was growing more enraged by the moment. _

                "Don't say another word, Jude," Professor Snape warned her as Fudge aimed his wand at her. 

                "If you won't believe me, Dumbledore will!" Jude turned and reached for the door handle, but was not fast enough. Tired from months of little to no sleep and constant searching had drained her of energy. It was through no fault of her own that she was too sluggish to avoid the Stunning Charm Fudge cast at that moment. 


	32. A Voice To Protest

Disclaimer: All characters, etc. associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. 

Any other characters, plot, etc. that are not Rowling's property are the property of the author. No money was made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended. Any conversation recognizable from Prisoner of Azkaban is also the property of J.K. Rowling. I have taken some liberties, however, as regards time frame.

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Voice To Protest

_'Wish I was too dead to care_

_If indeed I cared at all_

_Never had a voice to protest _

_So you fed me shit to digest_

_I wish I had a reason_

_My thought's a broken season_

_For this I gave up trying _

_One good turn deserves my dying_

_You don't need to bother_

_I don't need to be _

_I keep slipping farther_

_But once I hold on_

_I won't let go 'till it bleeds'_

_Corey Taylor, Bother_

                Jude scrubbed an icy hand across her dry eyes, now stinging with denied rest. She blinked against the arid heat of the room. Turning her head a bit painfully, she saw a fire in a grate and a rug…and a neat little table in front of that…Where the hell was she?

                She sat up on the sofa, noticing shadows moving about the room. Someone was in discussion with another party. She was not able to make out what was said because her mind had become so muddled from sleep…was it sleep? Something warned her otherwise. 

                Turning to the figures, she had to wait a moment before they came into focus. By the door stood two figures she did not recognize. They were nodding curtly as another man gave them hushed orders, the very picture of obsequious yes-men. Jude immediately recognized the man doling out instructions—it was Fudge. 

                Raising a hand to push herself up off the sofa, she felt the cold sting of metal against her wrists. The accompanying wave of exhaustion told her exactly what was binding her—adamantine. Manacles of a thick metal of a queer milky-green hue secured her hands mercilessly, draining her of her magic…and energy of which she was in short supply anyway. 

                Tearing her eyes away from her bound hands and gritting her teeth against the burning cold, she gained her feet weakly. The motion caught the attention of the guards and of the Minister. Jude glared, her hatred radiating from her like heat, unmistakable rage bent on Fudge. 

                "Ah, Miss Elliot. I see you've noticed my, er, little present," Fudge said, oozing manufactured charm.

                "What the hell is going on, Fudge?" Jude held her shackled wrists out to the Minister, demanding an explanation.

                "I am the one who will be asking the questions…and it's Minister Fudge," he replied icily, narrowing his eyes at her.

                "I have the right to know exactly what I am being charged with," she spat disdainfully, struggling to remain standing on her throbbing foot. The cuffs had numbed her hands and she was shivering with cold and exhaustion.

                "You, in fact, have no rights, Miss Elliot. You are under arrest." Fudge smiled cruelly, savoring the recent turn of events. 

                "Even prisoners have rights, Fudge. Or have you forgotten that?" A voice spoke in a weary tone from the dimly lit corner.

                The words startled Jude and she whipped around, fighting a wave of dizziness briefly, squinting to discern the person leaning against the window. She knew the ragged outline, the sad, rough, hopeless voice. It was Black.

                "Oh, how silly of me. That's not how you play the game, is it, Fudge?" Black was staring out of the window, his eyes narrowed and unfocused. He frowned bitterly. She knew what he was looking for…his punishment for Peter's crime was to be delivered into the hands of the dementors. "Guilty until proven innocent, isn't that right?"

                "Shut it, Black. Or I will." Yes-man number one twirled his wand carelessly, a pro at intimidation, so he thought. 

                "He'll be quiet soon enough, Beck. Until then, let him squawk." Fudge pulled the heavy door open and turned to leave. In the dim corridor, Jude noticed a blue and bronze tapestry of a fair-haired woman holding an illuminated tome. Rowena Ravenclaw. She was in Professor Flitwick's office. 

                As Fudge stepped over the threshold, the guards tensed and gripped their wands, casting shifty glares at Jude and Black.

                "You're an unbelievable idiot, do you know that? Peter Pettigrew is walking around, free. He is guilty of everything Black was accused of, don't you see?" Jude's voice rose to a frantic screech as Fudge turned his back to her. "You're going to ignore it, aren't you?" Jude took a step forward, but was kept at bay by a wand leveled between her eyes.

                "Ignore what?" Fudge asked with lazy indulgence. "The public wants the murderer apprehended. They don't even know who Pettigrew is. Black is a front-page name." Fudge strode out into the candlelit hall, a low growl from Black following him.

                "You fucking bastard!" Jude railed at the Minister's retreating form.

                "Yes, but a victorious fucking bastard, Miss Elliot." Fudge turned to grace her with a charming smile. "The headlines will be magnificent."

                The door slammed before Jude could close the distance between herself and the Minister. The iron grip of the guard caught her by the arms and flung her back into the middle of the room. She hit the floor hard. Tasting the faint metallic tang of blood, she struggled once again to her feet. The other man held Black off with his wand. 

                The guards eyed the pair cautiously before returning to the tense watch they kept of the exit. Black glared at them as Jude massaged her jaw as best as she could with both wrists bound. She stared at the floor, not wanting to meet Black's stare. She failed to catch Peter. This was all her fault.

                "I take it he got away." 

                "Yes," Jude replied hollowly, venturing to glance his way.

                He nodded resignedly and slumped against the imposing desk cluttered with the evidence of a scholarly life. 

                "I'm sorry, I really…" she stammered weakly.

                "No, don't," he said quietly, arms crossed over his thin chest, frowning. "It's not your fault. You did everything you possibly could do." He sighed as one resigned to his fate. "If anyone should apologize, it's me. I shouldn't have let you get involved."

                "Fudge has wanted to throw me in Azkaban ever since I was ten. If I hadn't given him this chance now, I would have inevitably screwed up somehow." Jude tried to smile, but that was the last thing she felt like doing. 

                "Damn it!" she yelled in frustration. "If only I could have gotten to Dumbledore first. I was an idiot for thinking Professor Snape would be on my side." Jude still couldn't believe it. The one person she thought that would always stick by her…but he just stood there. 

                "I thought you said he was your friend." Black spat contemptuously and returned his gaze to the window. 

                "Yeah." Her voice was bland and stretched. She walked painfully back to the sofa and dropped onto the soft cushions, burying her face in her hands. The adamantine, stronger than any other substance, was draining her. 

                "So what's the story?" Jude asked finally. If her last remaining friend was going to turn his back on her, she wanted to know why. 

                "Hmmm?" Black had been pulled from his melancholy reverie, not catching the question she'd asked. 

                "What was the big secret? I know the professor. He may be a cruel, self-centered prat, but he would never ignore facts simply to see a schoolboy rival sent back to prison. I think he suspects you're innocent too, but something is holding him back. He thinks you still deserve this." She stared blankly into the searing fire. "So what was it about?"

                Black moved around the side of the sofa, keeping a wary eye on the guards. "That's complicated." He stared into the flames, leaning against the mantle wearily. 

                "I've got time." Jude leaned back on the sofa and glared at the man in front of her. She was going to get her explanation if it was the last thing she ever did…and it was looking like this would be just that…the last thing she ever did. 

                Black realized he wasn't going to get off with his lame statement. "I killed a friend of his." He moved his gaze from the angry flames to Jude. She maintained the blank look that kept her expression unreadable. "I was an Auror. A rookie, but the best damn one in the corps. I was on the trail of an informant. For months, Voldemort had been one step ahead of us. We knew someone was feeding him information—the location and time of raids, stuff like that." He hung his head and glared back at the flames. "We lost a lot of good blokes. Would've been a lot more if we hadn't had our own man in His ranks giving us news. No one knew who this guy was, but his tips were good. On a bust that was turned into a surprise party for our boys, he was there—your precious professor—that's when I knew he was one of them, a Death Eater. And she was there with him…Tara Baldwin." 

                "Tara was a Hufflepuff—an unlikely friend for a Slytherin asshole like Snape, but there you have it. She worked for the Ministry…Magic Reversal Squad. That's when I knew…when I saw her there with him. She was the informant."

                Jude was gawking. She never expected the story to be that damn good. "So, she told you that she was…"

                "I didn't ask questions. No one asked Eddie Keagan or Billy Donovan or any of the others questions before they were killed. I paid her in kind." Black's tone was bitter and angry. 

                Jude wasn't aware that she was staring, jaw dropped, in awe of what she was hearing. It made sense to her now—why Snape would want Black behind bars, or worse…he thought he deserved no less. Black would pay, whether it be for Peter's crimes or his own, it didn't matter to Snape. 

                She sighed and closed her eyes. She understood now…but still…she hoped he would value her above some vendetta. Swallowing hard, she accepted the fact grudgingly that this Tara won out. She would be avenged and Jude would go to prison for protesting her murderer's innocence. But he should have at least explained this himself. She thought she at least deserved that. But where was he?

***

                "A disaster, Headmaster." Snape's voice held a dangerous edge. 

                "And where is she now," Dumbledore asked anxiously.

                "Fudge and his goons threw her in with Black. And you knew about this all along?" the Potions Master questioned Dumbledore, not trying to hide his anger. He held a sacred reverence for his employer and redeemer almost akin to worship, but where Jude was concerned, he was inflexible…to everyone. 

                "It was her own choice. I did not force her to prove Black's innocence." 

                "But you didn't warn her. You knew Black would use her…make her believe he was innocent. Now she's willing to die to get that scum off." He clenched and unclenched his fists. He hated Black, that was evident, but hate was mild compared to what he felt for the man who manipulated her into giving up everything for the chance to set him free. 

                "Did you ever think that he may be innocent…that Jude may be right about him?" Dumbledore spoke in the annoyingly philosophical air he was prone to adopt now and then. It was infinitely frustrating. 

                "He's guilty of much more than he was convicted of." 

                "That may be," the Headmaster conceded. "But that's a battle for another day."

                Snape glared viciously. "Even if I stopped pushing this, it's her word against nothing. And I think nothing has a better shot." He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "And," he exclaimed, executing an about-face, pointing a finger at the Headmaster, "even if Fudge believed her, there's still the matter of…"

                "Yes. I know. It gets tricky." Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose. "She didn't tell anyone that she was an Animagus…of course, she wouldn't have been registered, but she should have told someone. I could have smoothed things over with the Minister…"

                Snape hung his head and shut his eyes, defying the light to muddle his thoughts. "And what is she facing?" He didn't want the answer.

                Dumbledore sighed. "The same as Black." 

                Snape stared blankly at the Headmaster. "And there's nothing we can do?" 

                He shook his head. "Cornelius has grown rather weary of me telling him what to do…but I will try." 

***

                "I guess it would be a blessing…if I had no soul, it would stand to reason that I had no memories…" Black's eyes glittered darkly in the firelight, not focusing on anything yet seeing something off in the distance. 

                Jude shrugged and stood painfully. "You may still have memories, but you won't be able to feel them…at least I hope not." She gripped the mantle and rested her head on her icy fingers, her eyes taking in the licking flames, but not noting anything. 

                "Why?" Black looked at her discerningly. "You're young. What memories could you possibly have that could haunt you?"

                Jude pushed off of the stone piece. "Is this a one-upmanship?" She smiled wearily. "Okay, I'll play." She stared off, looking for that one illusive thread of recollection. "I've killed a man. Is that good enough? I mean, I know it's not Azkaban-caliber drear, but, hey, I've never been to prison before."

                He nodded thoughtfully. "Who?" 

                She looked up at him quickly, eyes wide, stunned. Frantically she shook her head. 

                He surveyed her before relenting. "Okay, you won't tell. That's fair." 

                She was amazed. He didn't want to know that she was the one ultimately responsible for his best friend's death? 

                "You?" Jude shook off her shock and asked her question.

                He shook his head.

                "Come on! Thirteen years in Azkaban and you've got nothing?" Jude narrowed her eyes incredulously at the ragged man next to her. He was frowning into the fire. No…that wasn't fair. He made her tell, now it was his turn. "What do you see when the dementors…"

                He shut his eyes tight and swallowed hard. "That night." 

                Her breath caught in her chest. The pain present in that statement…he felt guilty.

                "There was nothing you could have done for them…I know…I was…"

                "There?" he laughed ruefully. "You know, at first I didn't recognize you. But now, I can see…you haven't changed much. How old were you then, again?"

                "Ten." 

                He furrowed his brow at her in surprise and confusion. "Ten? Wow…that's young. I didn't kill a man until I was twenty…and that was out of self-defense." He looked impressed. She dropped her eyes back down to the fire. It was nothing to be proud of. 

                "Look. Don't beat yourself up…you followed orders like a good soldier…we were at war." He was gripping the mantle piece hard. "It wasn't someone I know, was it? An Auror?" 

                She shook her head. At least she didn't lie about the last question…he didn't really make a distinction, did he? And as far as she knew, James hadn't worked for the Ministry.

                Swallowing hard, she forced herself to ask him a question. "Is it really bad, Azkaban?" Her voice cracked despite all her efforts to sound brave.

                He released the mantle and reached for her hands. She noticed he flinched at the cold. In answer to her question, he nodded. But to soften the blow, he smiled kindly. "But you have already proven that you can bear much…"

                She nodded and squeezed his hand, grateful for some contact. "Maybe I won't have to bear it…I may get the same punishment as you…it would be a reprieve, really."

                "Don't say that…" he begged emphatically when the door opened suddenly.

                Fudge entered with pompous swagger followed by a grimly determined Dumbledore. Jude's anxiety lightened for a moment. He was, in turn, followed by a morose-looking Snape. She glared at him with wounded contempt. He struggled to refrain from eye contact. Bringing up the rear was a very much unexpected visitor. Professor McGonagall in a plaid tartan dressing gown.

                Jude pulled her hands free of Black's and turned to face the crowd defiantly. 

                "Go ahead, Cornelius." Dumbledore's voice was stern. "Release her."

                Jude's eyes darted from Fudge to Dumbledore and back in quick, suspicious movements. Was he really going to let her go…again? That was clearly the last thing he wanted to do.

                "Now, Albus. That wasn't part of the deal. It may be unwise…well, you know." Fudge was fidgeting, his voice was tense and anxious. 

                "That's absurd, Minister." The clipped and official tones of Professor McGonagall startled Jude a bit. "She's had contact with the adamantine for an hour already, you say?" She pressed her lips together in a thin line, giving Jude an appraising look. Then she turned to face the Minister fully. "That's plenty of time, don't you think? She should be too weak to perform any magic whatsoever." She clasped her hands in front of her, and glared judiciously at the Minister, as if she were scolding a misbehaving student. "I honestly don't see what you're apprehensive about, Minister." 

                "That may be so, but she will remain under arrest." Fudge crossed his arms and glared at Jude who looked more confused and tired by the moment. Black stood motionless by the fire, blending with the shadows. 

                "On what grounds?" It was Professor Snape's cold voice this time. "You've already agreed to overlook…"

                "Yes. I agreed that she would not be charged with the illegal Animagus ability, on the condition that it be reversed. But there is still the matter of Black. She aided a convicted criminal—she helped Black hide out! He would have gotten away had it not been for—," 

                "If I had turned him in, you would have shot first and asked questions later." Jude was clenching her teeth, trying to master her rage. 

                Fudge took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her evenly. "Black has demonstrated his guilt many times in the past few months. Attacking a student with a knife…it all seems as if he's guilty. And you have been duped."

                "I have not been—," 

                "So, here's my offer: I will release you—all charges dropped—if you stop your insane protesting of Black's innocence." 

                Jude shook her head emphatically. "Never." 

                "What is it to you if he's guilty or not? He's going to meet the same fate either way. And you can either join him or keep silent. It's a fair exchange, and I think you'd be a fool to turn it down."

                "No." Her reply was quiet, barely audible.

                "Why not?" Professor Snape asked quickly, clearly angered by her response.

                "Because, Professor," she spat ungraciously. "It may seem silly to the rest of you, but I believe in justice. Call me idealistic," Jude laughed ironically, "but I believe a man's life is worth a little more than a few headlines and good press for our beloved Minister." Her narrowed eyes were bent on Fudge who stood, fuming, just a few feet to her left.

                "Don't be silly, Jude! This isn't a game!" Professor Snape had moved to stand menacingly in front of her. "We're trying to help you and you want to throw everything away for _him_? He's not worth it. Just say it. He's guilty." He was glaring at Black over her. 

                She drew her shoulders back and set her chin, determined. She held the professor's withering glare defiantly. "I will not…Sir," she replied, her quiet voice crackling with the frustration and rage that had been building, finally breaking its dam. 

                He looked away reluctantly, resting his malicious glare on Black. "I hope you're pleased, Black. But then again, you were never happier than when you were destroying someone else's life." Jude was surprised to note the dissipating rage behind his words, an intense sorrow filling the void. He shook his head and turned to leave the room when the Headmaster caught him by the arm. They exchanged a few hushed words, then the professor continued on his way, glancing back once at her. Her expression remained stubbornly resolute as she met his pleading stare. Then he left. 

                "Jude." Black's voice recalled her from her thoughts. "Don't do this. I'm not worth it." 

                She spun around to face Black, angry. "It's not about that. It's not about you, or me. It's about something worth more than all of this, believing in something worth dying for." She looked at Dumbledore. "I'm sorry, but if I give in, it will be easier next time…for all of us…to discount something as sacred as life. I've learned its value the hard way…but it was a lesson well learned." 

                Dumbledore smiled and nodded. Jude felt a pang, an understanding that this was it—her last chance. But her decision would be respected all the same. 

                "Will you trust me now?" Dumbledore spoke unexpectedly. Fudge was becoming impatient with the moral lessons. His goons were becoming just as antsy to see some action. Professor McGonagall remained statuesque, unmoving and cold as stone. 

                Jude furrowed her brow in confusion, but nodded. The Headmaster was one of the few people to whom she could deny nothing. 

                "Good," he smiled kindly at her and Black. Turning to Fudge who was lazily examining his nails, he spoke authoritatively. "She accepts your offer—she will say nothing to contradict your accusations of Black." Fudge scrutinized the Headmaster, discerning whether or not he was serious. Glancing over at one of the comical guards he commanded him to remove her restraints. He looked to Fudge for confirmation and was answered with a curt nod. The man advanced on Jude and removed a small key composed of the same milky-green metal as the manacles. She breathed a heavy sigh, relieved to feel the frigid material fall from her wrists. 

                "Do I have your word?" Fudge eyed her cautiously, his man maintaining his proximity to her, a threat that she could once again suffer the adamantine cuffs if she refused. "Not that I have any illusions to the reliability of your word, but it seems that is all the assurance I am to have."

                She looked to Dumbledore and watched as he nodded, a sign for her to accept. 

                "Yes," she said icily and her heart sank at her word.

                "Excellent," Fudge answered, sounding, however, less than thrilled to have to make such a concession. "Beck, summon a member of the Magical Reversal Squad. We need to reverse a complicated transfiguration."

                Beck moved to the door, but was stopped at a word from the Headmaster. "If you please, Cornelius, I would like Minerva to perform the spell. She is the top mind of her field and I have every confidence in her ability." 

                Fudge looked wounded. "Are you expressing distrust of Ministry staff?"

                "Absolutely not, Cornelius. But why summon someone at this hour, when I have at my disposal the best of the best." Dumbledore smiled gleefully and clapped his hands together. Jude noticed Professor McGonagall blush slightly at the Headmaster's assessment of her skill.

                "Fine, then.  Get on with it." Fudge stood off to the side, giving McGonagall room. 

                Professor McGonagall strode over to Jude in an officious manner. She looked on her task sternly, yet not without kindness. Jude tried to relax, but found it difficult. She knew what was about to happen, and knew that it was a painful process. Still, she tried to seal up her anxiety and not betray the least bit of emotion to her audience. 

                "Animagus Transformations at the age of eight." McGonagall rolled up her sleeves expertly. "I understand now why you always seemed so disinterested in my classes." She smiled a pinched and reluctant smile. She was trying to make this all less tense for her and Jude was grateful. 

                "Now, I am going to count to three before I say the word." She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Jude. She stiffened at the sight of the stick leveled at her chest. "Try to remain calm. It will be a bit painful, but try not to think of it. Everything will be fine." 

                Jude tried in vain to slow her heartbeat. She didn't hear the words McGonagall uttered and was only aware a few moments later of a white-hot pain prick every nerve of her body. It ran in waves from her chest down her limbs. Her head felt as if the pressure would crack it like an over-boiled egg. A tearing sensation as if something were being ripped from her…a part of her that was painfully separated from her, leaving her incomplete. Then the excruciating pain ebbed and dissipated. 

                Aware of nothing but a burning pain in her head, behind her eyes, and a dull ache in her hands and knees, she tried to blink the room back into focus. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving erratically as she gasped and sputtered. She was not conscious of anything that had happened beyond the surges of pain. She hoped she had not screamed or betrayed any of the torment. 

                Vague patterns swam into view. Flowery swirls, like the pattern of a carpet. That was it! She was staring at the twisting pattern of a dusty rug. Her hands and knees ached because she had fallen to the floor. Looking up, she saw a pair of gray, reflective eyes like mirrors staring back at her. 

                Struggling to push herself up off the floor, she gaped. It was a large, marmalade cat with a horribly squashed face and bushy tail. Glancing around the room, she was aware of more occupants besides the cat. McGonagall helped her to her feet. She stood shakily and stared from her to Dumbledore, then to Fudge who looked infinitely pleased. One of his goons stood protectively by his side and fingered his wand shiftily. The other of the matched pair held Black in one corner of the room, his weapon leveled threateningly at the man. Black's face bore a stricken expression. She stared sadly back at him, ridden with guilt at having abandoned him. It must have been an expression identical to that Jesus wore as Judas betrayed him. She sighed. It wasn't the first time she'd seen that look, and she feared it would not be her last. 

                Fudge's henchman seized the harmless feline by the scruff of the neck. It hissed and spitted its disapproval. 

                "Shall I get rid of it, boss?"

                "No!" Jude screamed at the man holding the fighting cat. "That cat belongs to someone. A girl bought and paid for it. And I will see it returned to her."

                The man glanced inquiringly at the Minister. Fudge nodded and the lackey dropped the cat. It padded silently over to Jude and sat at her feet. 

                "Well, shall we?" Fudge rubbed his hands together and moved to the door followed by his guard. Dumbledore joined Fudge as he exited, speaking to him quietly of some matter—Black, Jude suspected as she was lead gently to the door by Professor McGonagall, placing a steadying hand on Jude's elbow. 

                At the door, Jude couldn't resist a furtive glance back at him. He had returned to his window, glaring out at the cold, moonlit grounds hopelessly. 

                The second guard pulled the door shut behind them after casting a cruel glare at Black. 

                "If your thinking of escaping that way, it's a seven-story fall," he called back to the man by the window tauntingly. The door clicked shut and he was gone. 

***

                McGonagall ushered her through the doors of the hospital wing, the cat still at her heels. Dumbledore was ahead of her and the Transfiguration Professor, just inside the doorway leading to an interior ward and to Madam Pomfrey's office. She could hear his rushed conversation with Madam Pomfrey, and silently hoped that he still had one more trick up his sleeve. Black could use it.

                There was a loud and rash conversation, accompanied by irate protests from a familiar voice. Jude was not surprised to see, moments later, Professor Snape march angrily through the doors followed by a hassled Fudge. He glared at her in passing with such an odd combination of expressions, Jude was powerless to discern their portent. She simply watched both figures retreat through the last doorway. 

                Mere seconds after the two left, a highly agitated Madam Pomfrey came into the ward where she stood. 

                "Ah, Poppy," McGonagall greeted her with civility. 

                Pomfrey shook her head and held up her hands in surrender. "Apparently I am no longer in control of my own infirmary. Shouting, disturbing patients—I've never seen anything like it before. Complete lack of respect." 

                Jude's shoulders slumped as she tried to remain alert enough to pay polite attention to Madam Pomfrey's rant. She swayed back and forth, fighting the acute fatigue that threatened to topple her. 

                "Madam Pomfrey, do you mind if I just crash here for a little while?" Jude felt a twinge of guilt at the interruption, but the nurse looked grateful for the distraction, seeming just now to have noted Jude's distressed state. 

                "Of course, dear." Madam Pomfrey bustled over to Jude, taking her by the arm. McGonagall released her into Pomfrey's care and exited the room quietly. "My, my! You look a fright, child. What on earth have you been up to?" She shooed her into a nearby bed. Jude was reluctant to mar the perfect white sheets with her filthy jeans and dirty feet. But she could stand no longer and decided to do the damage without further thought. 

                Madam Pomfrey tutted as she saw the bloodied foot. "Let me go and fetch something for that. I'll be right back." She bustled off and Jude snuggled under the soft, comforting blankets. When Madam Pomfrey returned, Jude was out like a light, curled on her side hugging the pillow under her head, one arm flung off the side of the bed. Her dirty feet protruded carelessly from the pristine bedclothes. A ginger cat was snugly curled up by her knees. Madam Pomfrey fought hard to ignore the unsanitary indiscretion.

                The nurse set to work cleaning the wound and dressing it carefully, listening with little interest to the hushed and hurried conversation from the other room. 

                "Now, pay attention," Dumbledore implored. "Sirius is locked in Professor Flitwick's office on the seventh floor. Thirteenth window from the right of the West Tower. If all goes well, you will be able to save more than one life tonight. But remember this, both of you: you must not be seen. Miss Granger, you know the law—you know what is at stake…_You must not be seen."_

                "I am going to lock you in. It is…five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns should do it. Good Luck." 

                "Good luck?" It was the questioning voice of a boy. "Three turns? What's he talking about? What are we supposed to do?" 

Madam Pomfrey had ceased to mark the words, having become absorbed in her task. It was a nasty wound, exacerbated by the fact that the willful girl had not seen her about it earlier. She looked up and smiled politely as Dumbledore passed quietly through the room as she pulled the screen closed around the bed of her newest patient then ducked back inside the confines to finish her work. The soft clicks of a key in the lock of the door followed the Headmaster's departure. Madam Pomfrey thought nothing of being locked in her hospital wing. After all, there was a dangerous criminal being held in the school. 

***

"Am I allowed to look after my patients now?" She hustled into the other wing, a little perturbed, after a few moments had lapsed after the Headmaster's departure. 

She jumped, however, steadying herself with a hand on the knob of the open door. An enraged howl came from somewhere in the distant corridors of the castle. 

"What was that?" she gasped in alarm, her hand flying to her chest. She turned as she heard angry voices and hurried footsteps heading in her direction. "Oh, not again," she lamented. "Really—they'll wake everyone up! What do they think they're doing?"

"He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should have left somebody in the room with him. When this gets out—," 

"He didn't Disapparate!" Snape hissed at the Minister. "You can't Apparate or Disapparate inside this castle! This—has—something—to—do—with—Potter!"

"Severus, be reasonable. Harry has been locked up—," 

Jude jumped, startled by the thick wooden door crashing against the stone wall of the room in which she was sleeping. 

"Out with it, Potter!" Jude listened as Snape bellowed. "What did you do?"

"Professor Snape!" Madam Pomfrey squawked. "Control yourself!"

"See here, Snape, be reasonable," said Fudge. "This door's been locked, we just saw—," 

"They helped him escape, I know it!" He howled, enraged beyond the point of being reasonable.

Jude couldn't believe what she was hearing…Black had escaped! She smiled wearily and heaved a relieved breath, the anxiety melting from her as the seconds passed. 

"It was not Harry who helped him escape, and you know it. It was _her!" Now it was Fudge's turn to be unreasonable, she thought. _

"She's been here the whole time, as well, Cornelius." Dumbledore spoke at last. It seemed that both Fudge and Snape had lost their battles. "Miss Elliot has been asleep in the next room ever since we left Professor Flitwick's office…oh, about twenty minutes ago!" Glee was apparent in the Headmaster's voice. He was enjoying this. 

She settled back into the bed and closed her eyes. Whatever was said next was superfluous—Black had escaped. She sank back into an easy sleep, the cat purring like a small outboard motor next to her. 

***

_"Are you going to look for your parents when we get there?" Tommy questioned the girl next to him anxiously._

_"No, stupid!" the girl answered briskly. "That's not why I'm going to __London__." She gave the boy a superior, important look of someone on a grander mission than her companion. "Is that why you're going?" She demanded to know._

_The boy shrugged. _

_"Hmph!" the girl shook her head, disgusted. "Why would you do that? I wouldn't want to see them again if I were you, Tommy." _

_They continued down the road, side by side, the boy favoring the girl with inquiring sideways glances, hoping to glean some of the superior knowledge she exuded. _

_"Why not?" he asked innocently._

_She rounded on him abruptly, her short straight hair was dingy and strands stuck to her face. They had been traveling for a couple of days already…it was a good pace for a couple of kids. _

_"Because they abandoned you…they aren't looking for you! Why on earth should you give a rat's arse about them?" The girl ranted as the boy quailed in front of her. _

_"But…haven't you ever wanted to find your family?" The boy was trying not to sound naïve but was hopelessly failing. _

_The girl looked down the road, frowning in determination, her chin stuck out defiantly. "I have no family…I don't need anyone!"_

A bouncing, bobbing energy forced her eyes open—something was jumping anxiously next to her bed, she could feel its presence. She scrubbed a hand across her eyelids, dislodging the shards of the shattered dream, forcing herself into a sitting position. She hurt all over—it hurt to move, it hurt to stay still. She was a wreck.

Blinking the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes, she saw an energetic house elf bobbing up and down next to her. Odd, she thought. He was wearing a tea cozy for a hat and had mismatched socks on. 

"Dobby has message for Miss," he announced importantly. 

She nodded at the strange elf, imploring him to discharge his duty.

"Professor Lupin wishes to have a word with Miss."

She nodded and flung her legs over the side of the bed. She needed a shower, but it could wait. The cat jumped down lightly and followed her out of the room, hissing as it passed the curious elf.

***

She rapped her knuckles lightly on the open door of the office to announce her presence.

"Miss Elliot." He smiled kindly as she entered the room. Noticing her limp, he offered her a chair, which she politely declined. She didn't intend to stay long. 

Leaning against the wall, she watched as he organized various possessions. "Going somewhere?" she asked reluctantly, trying to break the awkward silence. She couldn't help but partially blame him for what happened last night, and she had no doubts he probably blamed her to some degree. They were even.

"Yes, actually," he replied sheepishly. " I've resigned." 

She straightened up, looking at the professor with surprise. She had heard so many good things about this man and he obviously loved teaching…so what was the catch?

"Why?" she inquired, feeling slightly nosy.

"Because," he replied reluctantly with a sigh and faced her. His eyes, sad and weary, so much like her own it was frightening, pulled at that long forgotten memory. "I can't stay…not after what happened last night. It was too close of a call." He shook his head. "When I think of what could have happened…to Harry…to his friends…to you…" There was a pause, the silence was thick. "I can't risk that."

Jude stared at the ground, the cat was winding itself around her ankles, rubbing his ears on her jeans. 

"But that's not what I asked you here to talk about," he said, brightening up a bit. Jude tensed. She feared what was coming next. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have waited so long to make my presence known last night, in the shack…we could have avoided a lot of what happened…"

He laughed wearily. "No, I didn't want to point fingers either," he said, reaching into his pocket. "I just wanted to return something." He produced a small gold chain that Jude recognized immediately. 

She gaped at the object in his hand then shoved her own hand into her pocket. Indeed, it wasn't there—only the letter remained. There was a hole in the material…it must have fallen out.

"But…how did you know it was mine?" She furrowed her brow, utterly perplexed.

He smiled and looked fondly at the trinket in his hand. "Because I gave it to you," he said quietly, reluctantly. He chanced a glimpse of the girl across the room from him. She was staring, openly disbelieving.

"What?" she choked out finally, frowning with confusion. The memory fell into place, like the last piece of a huge puzzle…the Mirror of Erised…he was the younger of the two men she'd seen. Her family.

"I gave this to my sister…oh, gosh…twenty-two years ago." He crossed the room and placed the keepsake in her hands, then moved back to his spot in front of the desk.

She stared. It was hers, there was no mistake.

"When…"

"Well, I became suspicious when I heard your name mentioned," he explained with the practiced patience of a teacher. "I had a sister…well, half-sister…named Jude. My father remarried when I was eleven. Her name was Agatha…Elliot."

Her face was blank, betraying nothing but surprise. Her heart, however, was racing and her breath was coming in ragged gasps. 

"But that was flimsy evidence…could have been a coincidence, I thought. That is, until I came across this laying in the grass…in the same spot we were at last night when…" he broke off. 

She pushed herself off of the wall, forcing her limbs to move. A few steps closer and she froze, she could go no further. Something held her back…a resentment…and hatred? No, she didn't hate him…but why had no one looked for her all those years…why had they given her up in the first place? There were so many questions.

"Why?" she whispered finally, her chin trembling, choking back the tears that stung her eyes. "Why did they give me up? Why did they abandon me in some orphanage?" She was shaking with rage and wounded pride.

"What?" It was his turn to be confused.

"The earliest memory I have is of the orphanage at Basingstoke…not of a family who loved me…not of my mother…my father…or my brother!" She frowned, fighting to get the better of her emotions. 

"I…I didn't know, Jude. I thought you were with her all this time…we didn't know she would…"

Jude shook her head in disbelief. "Who? What are you talking about?"

"Agatha, your mother. She disappeared one night…and she took you with her…my father and I tried to find her…to find you…but she'd changed her name. She was gone. It never occurred to me that she would…my father loved you, Jude. He never would have abandoned you…I never would have—,"

A knock at the open door caused Jude to jump a little. She looked up at the visitor, but dropped her gaze immediately. It was Harry.

"Sorry to interrupt," Harry stammered, glaring momentarily at Jude then turning a fonder glance on the professor. "But it isn't true is it?" 

Professor Lupin nodded, defeated. 

"Thanks," Jude offered weakly, heading for the door, "for returning this. I have to go." She swept out of the door, ignoring the polite protests. She walked swiftly, despite the pain in her foot. Heading for the Entrance Hall, she had only one thought on her mind—she needed to get out of this castle…she had to get some air. The cat slinked along behind her, matching her pace easily.

Breaking out into the bright sunlight from the dimly lit corridors of the school, Jude had to blink several times before her vision cleared enough to see two figures approaching the steps she was standing on. It was Harry's friends, Ron and Hermione. She remembered her promise she made the night before. 

"Miss Granger, could I speak to you a moment," Jude ventured cautiously. 

The girl nodded apprehensively, giving her license to continue. Ron looked at her mutinously but remained silent. 

"I am so sorry, about everything." She looked from one to the other. Their expressions softened only slightly. "I didn't mean to trick you, but it was the only way. You have to believe me…"

"We don't _have to believe anything—," Ron protested, but was silenced by Hermione. _

Jude cowered only a little, maintaining herself with fierce determination to see this done. 

She bent to pick up the large, bushy cat. "How's your leg, Ron?" she asked abruptly, hoping to diffuse some of the tension between them.

"What? Oh, it's fine," he stammered, staring at her curiously. She smiled tentatively.

"I'm sorry about your rat—," she continued on hopefully.

"I'm not!" he said furiously.

"Then you forgive me for trying to kill him all those months ago?" 

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it." He looked down at his shoes, shuffling his feet nervously. "I, er, I guess I should apologize for kicking you and all that…" 

"No, I've handled worse. It's nothing…" she said, trying to assuage some of his guilt. She turned to Hermione, handing her the cat. "He's yours…"

She took the feline reluctantly, looking suspiciously from the cat to Jude. 

"Don't worry, he's just a cat. Half Kneazle, apparently. He's really smart."

Hermione's eyes brightened at this pronouncement. "Thank you."

Jude smiled. "No, don't thank me." Her expression darkened again. "I really didn't mean for any of you to get hurt. That's the last thing I wanted, but I screwed up. I'm sorry." 

The kids nodded. They continued up the steps and into the castle, Hermione staring back at her curiously, and Ron shaking his head. Jude sighed and continued out onto the grounds alone.

"Hullo, Jude!" 

She turned suddenly and smiled as she saw Hagrid. 

"Hullo, Hagrid," she said, trying to sound cheerful.

"You've heard the news, haven't yeh?" he asked happily.

She shook her head.

"Beaky's escaped." At her confused expression, he clarified. "My Hippogriff, 'e got away. They didn't execute him!" 

She clapped him on the shoulder and smiled genuinely. "Great news, Hagrid. When did this happen?" 

"Las' night!" he answered, cutting a path for the castle. "Gotta see Professor Dumbledore now."

She nodded allowing him to go. Everything had fallen into place, and, despite the disasters of the night before, things couldn't have gone better. 

Rubbing her weary eyes with the back of her filthy hands, she yawned. She could use a nap and a shower…and some peace and quiet…and Darcy.

She grinned and reached inside her worn shirt for the charm hanging from the chain around her neck. She wanted nothing more than to be back at the Abby with her dog, the closest thing to Rhys she had been left with. The ache was strong and her will was weak, so she went without further thought to anything that held her here.

Author's Note: A big thanks to a new reviewer, **Black Dragon. Thank you for all of your thoughtful remarks on the last chapters. And thanks to all of my previous reviewers. I hope you all like where the story is going. And ****Mags: this chapter should answer your previous question about Crookshanks. I hope you like it. The original character, Tara Baldwin, is dedicated to ****Tajuki****. I thought it would be ironic to name a character for her that was killed by Sirius Black, her very favorite character. **

                __


	33. Tether Unwinds

Disclaimer: All things related to the Harry Potter series are the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling. All things not related are the property of the author. No money is being made and no copyright infringements were intended. The letter from Jude's father is actually the first verse of Billy Joel's _Lullaby—I wish I could claim it as mine. _

Author's Note: Yes, once again, I know it's been done—an original character popping up as someone's sibling. But, never a big fan of cliché, I promise that I had more in mind than simply giving poor ickle Remus a sister…it works for plot…big time.

Another Note: Some of you have asked whether or not there will be a "thing" between Sirius and Jude, and if so, what's the age difference? I want to let my wonderful readers know now so the disappointment will not be too shocking. The age difference is roughly 11 years (I haven't actually sat down and timelined my main character in relation to others, but that's my reckoning). And, alas! Jude and Sirius will not progress beyond slightly antagonistic friends. I hope as the story continues, my readers will like the way I have gone instead. And, to answer **Black Dragon's question: I will continue through the fourth year and then move onto my own plot for fifth and sixth year—no more breaks for poor Jude. Thanks to all of my fabulous reviewers: your feedback has been invaluable!**

Chapter Thirty-Three: Tether Unwinds

_'String from your tether unwinds_

_Up and outward to bind _

_I was spinning free with a little sweet and simple numbing me_

_Tell me what do I need when words lose their meaning_

_Stumble 'til you crawl _

_Sinking into sweet uncertainty'_

_Jimmy Eat World, Sweetness_

                She sank into the warm water blissfully. The dirt melted away, revealing a myriad of cuts and bruises—the only thanks for the months of tireless work for justice. Sore muscles, black and blue arms, bloodied feet…this was what she got for giving a damn. And she would have gotten much more had Dumbledore not stepped in…again…and stayed her execution. 

                Still, she couldn't complain. Black was free…still on the run, but free nonetheless. Darcy was here and Snape was not—that was another thing to be thankful about…

                Arrgh! She growled, sinking further beneath the warm depths. She didn't want to think of that problem until it was time to deal with it. However she tried to rationalize how things had played out the night before, she still felt betrayed. She fought to place herself in his shoes, tried to see things from his point of view, but couldn't think of any scenario where she wouldn't believe him.

                Trying to think of other things was even harder. Turning from her anger toward Snape, she faced the scene played out in Professor Lupin's office earlier that day. It was not a better alternative.

                What in the hell had he expected of her? What was she supposed to do with the knowledge that she suddenly had family? What was she supposed to do with a brother who was practically a stranger? She was a stranger to him as well. She smiled grimly, thinking of what a disappointment she must have been. Congratulations, your long-lost, half-sister is a former Death Eater…

                Glancing down at her wrists, bared, scarred, desecrated with that condemning mark, a memory elbowed its way to the front of her barbed thoughts. Rhys…

                Had it actually been a year since that day? The day in which he'd finally seen her…the real Jude…for the first time…and then she'd lost him in that same instant. The sum of one's life was such memories—the defining moments of one's existence. And in that second she'd lost him, her life had changed irrevocably. It was surprising how short such moments actually were. How many seconds, minutes had passed between where she was now and that moment? All she was aware of was how many of those seconds she could not recall as clearly as the succession of minutes in which she'd lost Rhys…her only hope of something better. She bit back the tension rising in her throat, forcing herself to move.

                Wrapping her bathrobe around herself, she padded painfully, bare feet on the cold floor, over to the mirror. She noted happily that she was no longer filthy, her hair was now its normal shade of unremarkable sandy brown, damp and dangling in twisted, knotted clumps. Oh, well, she was too tired to tame the mess.

                But what startled her about her appearance was the fact that she was so thin and exhausted-looking. She was used to looking worn and weary, but could not remember ever looking this tired. And scrawny. She'd always been small, but never this thin. She sighed, finding solace in the fact that everything that had caused her to look like such a disaster was behind her. Now she could rest. 

                Binding her foot as best she could—no expert results like Madam Pomfrey's work, but it was passable—and pulling on soft pajamas, she hobbled out of her room and down the dark, drafty halls of the silent Abby. Darcy jumped off the bed and followed her mistress.

                It was early evening now and the shadows had almost faded completely to black, save the flickering and trembling ones made by the leaping flames in the fireplace in the study. She sat in front of the warm fire, relishing the comforting heat and uncorking a dusty bottle of Chianti she'd retrieved from the dank cellar. It was time to forget everything…just for a little while.

                She took a long pull from the bottle of dark liquid and settled back into the cushions of the sofa, staring at the angry flames. Darcy lay contentedly at her feet. Jude rubbed her ear affectionately with her foot. The dog's simple presence was an invaluable comfort to her.

                Frowning into the flames, she calculated that it would take a lot more than wine and sleep to kill her thoughts. Her gloom was interrupted as a soft tap on the windows overlooking the picturesque cliffs caused Darcy to jump up under her foot and run to the sound. Jude narrowed her eyes suspiciously and got to her feet to follow her dog, the bottle clutched in her hand. 

                Putting her hand to the glass, she peered out but saw nothing. Still, Darcy barked, so Jude opened the door and stepped out. She was much startled to be standing face to face with Black in the next instance. 

                "God," Jude swallowed hard, steadying herself with a hand on the wall of the austere house. "Don't do that. You scared the shit out of me." 

                "Sorry, I thought you saw me." He smiled mischievously. Darcy was inspecting the visitor.

                "It's dark," she scoffed. "And to think, I almost wasted good wine on you." 

                Black seemed just now to note that the girl was armed with more than just a curious dog. "You wouldn't have…"

                "Oh, I most definitely would," she smirked, leaning against the wall. Her foot was throbbing again. "There are dangerous convicts still at large…speaking of, what are you doing here…and how the hell did you know where I was…and what the hell do you want?"

                Black chuckled restrictedly. "In what order am I to answer? I asked Dumbledore where I might find you. I remembered this place from a few stakeouts I staged." 

                "Why did you want to know?" 

                "Well," Black began more seriously. "I never said thank you."

                Jude looked at him with disbelief. "That's it? You risked your neck for something as stupid as saying thanks. You Gryffindors really are a rare breed, aren't you?" Black smiled proudly, so she retorted, "And by rare I mean complete sodding idiots."

                "Well, there you have it." 

                "So, what else?" Jude prompted, suspecting that there was more. 

                "You can't even accept thanks. Wow, he really messed you up." Black shook his head disdainfully. 

                "Who?" Jude spat, frowning indignantly at the implication that she was somehow substandard.

                "Snape. You're like him sometimes, I think. It's scary, really." He looked at her with scrutiny. "There's only room in this world for one sarcastic bastard, so you're going to have to find another schtick."

                Jude's foul mood was sinking fast, her patience wearing dangerously thin. "Thanks for the advice, I'll keep that in mind. Get to the point, Black—you didn't come all the way to chide me about being a bitch."

                "You're right." Black sighed and favored her with another smile. She was a fun one to wind up, but there was a point to this risky visit. "I have a favor to ask you."

                She smiled slyly. "I knew it," she announced triumphantly. "Everyone has an angle. So what can I do for you, Mr. Black?"

                "You are one sad, sardonic little girl, did you know that?" Black was eyeing her incredulously.

                It was almost a compliment…almost. "Yes, but I'm right. So, what is it?"

                Black released an agitated breath. He was having trouble formulating his question, Jude could tell, so she braced herself for something big. 

                "I need you to keep an eye on Harry for me." He searched her face for some sign of an answer.

                That was it? That's what he wanted? She'd been asked to do it before, but had only been convinced by Dumbledore. She doubted that anyone else held such sway over her decisions. 

                "Why me?" Jude asked, her voice ringing with the new gravity of their conversation.

                Black shrugged. "I can't do it."

                "But he'll be at his relative's house over the summer…Dumbledore said he can't be touched there. And he'll be at Hogwarts by September. He's safe." Jude scrunched her nose and thought for a moment. "Black, what have you heard…what aren't you telling me?"

                He shook his head morosely. "It just doesn't feel right. Peter's scurried back to Him, I can sense it." Jude nodded in agreement, but continued to stare, perplexed. "And Dumbledore said something about a prediction…Harry told him that during his exam, Trelawney went into a trance and…I don't know…she had a premonition—," 

                "What did she predict?" Jude snorted in disgust. She did not pretend to hold any respect for the fraudulent Divination teacher. "That the Beatles aren't going to hold a reunion concert after all?"

                "This is serious, Jude." Black's grave expression forced her to pay the story her full, mirthless attention. "She said something about the return of Voldemort."

                "Do you believe it?" she asked reluctantly, still finding it hard to get worked up over something Trelawney predicted would happen. 

                Black shrugged. "Dumbledore does, and that's good enough for me."

                She nodded. There was definitely something unsettling in all of this, but Jude was still skeptical. 

                "But are you sure I'm the right person?" She crossed her arms and looked to Black for an answer. "Harry doesn't even like me. I'm the last person he wants around.  And I don't exactly have the best track record where he's concerned." 

                He nodded thoughtfully. "Dumbledore told me everything."

                Jude shut her eyes, wishing she hadn't heard the last statement. So he knew all that there was to know. She was beginning to see how things were—she should be expecting a letter soon from Dumbledore, offering her some made-up position at the school just so she could be in close proximity to Harry. And, of course, she'd agree.

                "And you still trust me?" Jude asked finally in a small, weary voice.

                "With my life…and with Harry's." 

                She looked up and met his eyes. He was earnest, and she could not turn him down. The full weight of what he was entrusting her with was overwhelming and she prayed that she wouldn't fail them this time. 

                Pressing her lips together in a fine, determined line, she agreed. 

                "Thank you." Black clapped a hand on her shoulder, almost causing her weary knees to buckle under her. 

                She gritted her teeth against a sarcastic comment. Why was it so difficult for her to accept gratitude with grace? 

                "You're welcome," she said finally, noting how unnatural her voice sounded to her own ears. Turning to retreat back into the warm house, she stopped. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked back at the man standing in the light from the window. 

                "Congratulations…on your freedom." She handed him the bottle which he took reluctantly. "A toast." He smiled. "Maybe, if we find Peter, you'll be cleared." 

                He laughed at that, but took a drink regardless. He handed it back to her and she mimicked his motion. 

                "Aren't you too young to drink?" Black said, taking a few steps back from the house. 

                Jude smirked, leaning against the frame of the open door. Darcy bounded through it and resumed her watch from the window.

                "I was when I was seven and stealing the communion wine." She disappeared through the door, but popped her head back out to call to Black's retreating form. "Be careful, will you?" 

                "The same goes for you," he answered before disappearing into the shadows of the grounds.

                Falling back onto the sofa in front of the warm fire, Jude sighed heavily. A new commission to protect Harry was the last thing she needed that night. Her mind was already too full to bear any longer. And there was only one remedy to that. 

                The bottle was soon drained and left lying on the floor where she'd dropped it. She was curled haphazardly on the sofa, snoring, when he walked in. 

***

                It was late when he arrived, but he headed for his study anyway. There would be no sleep tonight. Isn't that the way it went? No rest for the wicked? And he was undoubtedly the villain in this one. 

                When he opened the door to his beloved study he was grateful to note that a fire had already been lit in the grate. As he stepped into the room, Jude's nuisance dog jumped up and ran to him. He ignored it and walked to the fire, mentally noting to remind the house elves to keep the animal out of his study.

                As he crossed to the other side of the room, he realized he was not alone. The dog was in his study because she was there, the dog's mistress, asleep on the sofa. She was wearing the pajamas that made her look ten years old again, and her hair was wet. He frowned at that—neatness was one of his many vices and her damp locks would undoubtedly leave a mark. But the disapproval soon melted as he watched her sleep. She looked peaceful, unconcerned—very much unlike herself.

                He moved between her and the fire, casting a shadow across her face. At his feet lay a bottle, emptied of its contents. He smiled ruefully—that answered his question. She, like himself, was something of an insomniac, and even after nights and nights of wakefulness, sleep never came easily. But it would, no doubt, make things worse when she woke up. He knew they would have to have it out sometime and was not looking forward to it. There was a lot that he needed to explain to her, a lot that he knew she wouldn't understand, or wouldn't want to. But, thankfully, that would be saved for the morning. 

                Her faithful companion, Darcy, returned to curl up by the sofa in front of the fire. The professor tucked the arm flung off the edge of the cushion under her chin and tugged the blanket off the chair next to him. He covered her with it then retreated to his desk to let her sleep off the bottle of expensive Chianti. She had impeccable taste, he noted grudgingly, tossing the bottle in the wastebasket.

***

                "Good afternoon." The cold, unmistakable voice rang in her head painfully. 

                She pushed herself up off the sofa reluctantly, trying to blink the fuzzy feeling out of her head to no avail. She felt like a wreck and she knew she must look worse than that. Stretching her arms over her head, she tried to rid herself of the tension, but it held fast. It would be best to get everything over with as quickly as possible.  

                 Turning to face the professor bravely, Jude glared with a coldness to match his greeting. She brushed the hair away from her face agitatedly, her head spinning and reeling as she tried to focus her pent-up anger. Her vengeful glare was wasted, however—he was not looking at her, but lavished his attention on the books in front of him. She narrowed her eyes and stood up. 

                The wave of dizziness threatened to topple her, but she fought it courageously, remaining upright with the skill of one practiced in the art of drinking. The pain in her foot was excruciating and the possibility of a regal exit was dashed. A quick and ignoble retreat was all that remained…or stand and fight…but that was the last thing she felt like doing right now. Especially since it seemed that the professor would not spare her even one notice. She bent her attention on the door instead, endeavoring to make it out of the room without weaving or limping too much. But that too was a lost cause, she soon realized. 

                "I'll be out of your way in an hour…as soon as I can grab some things." Her voice was weary but resolute. She reached for the doorknob when her hand was stayed by a word.

                "Stop," he commanded. She obeyed more from reflex than from desire to hear what he had to say. It was simply an ingrained response, to do as he said…always. She'd rarely questioned, and even more rarely disobeyed, his instructions. She turned to face him reluctantly.

                He looked up after a few agonizing moments, a measured glance betrayed no emotion. "Where will you go?" 

                She shrugged her shoulders. 

                He smirked. "You don't have anywhere else to go." His voice was calm, flat, as if he knew what to say all along. It was a practiced indifference that grated on Jude's nerves. "Come and sit down before you fall over." 

                Jude frowned and raised her chin defiantly. "I'll stand." 

                He glared coldly at her. "Don't be willful, child. Sit down." It was not said unkindly, but her anger heightened at the words.

                "I'm not a little girl anymore!" she ranted wildly, breaking the serene calm of the room. "I'll do as I please." 

                The cold glare was not changed by her words. But now he stood. "Yes, and that's exactly what got you into this mess in the first place."

                Her head was ringing with a metallic clang that was maddening. She narrowed her eyes cruelly. "No, I was fine until you came along and fucked the whole thing up!" she raged.

                "I will not tolerate that kind of language!" He yelled in turn. "If you wish to carry on this discussion you will keep a civil tongue. If not, then I am through speaking to you." 

                She breathed heavily, fighting with everything left her to maintain control of herself. 

                "Why did you do it?" she asked finally, her voice quavering a bit with suppressed anger. 

                "Do what?" he asked vaguely. 

                "You know bloody well what!" She took a step forward, wincing with the pressure on her wounded foot. 

                A warning glance was the censure she received for her crude language, but he did not yell. "I had no idea you'd gotten yourself mixed up with that murderer. You never told me anything." He sounded angry. 

                So that was it. He was just as angry with her for what she'd kept from him. "I had to keep it secret. I wasn't even going to tell Dumbledore about my plan, but I thought he ought to know." She explained, hoping to assuage his anger. She was the only one with the right to be enraged here. 

                "You didn't trust me?" He smirked, raising an eyebrow elegantly at the irony of the statement. 

                "That's not it," she said wearily. "I didn't tell you because I knew you hated Black and you would do everything you could to talk me out of going after him."

                "You're damned right I would have." He was pacing the length of the large window, glaring at her with an odd mixture of expressions. "He's dangerous, Jude. Didn't you see he was just using you?" 

                She stumbled forward another step. "But he wasn't. I had my suspicions that he was innocent because I didn't recognize his name."

                "That's no reason to trust him." He was becoming angrier as she continued to defend him. "He's guilty of much more than you can accuse him of." 

                "But he shouldn't be punished for crimes he didn't commit!" Jude moved to the front of the desk and slammed both palms flat on the polished surface, pulling his attention away from his pacing. "I thought you'd be the last to question my authority as concerns someone's…affiliations." She was slightly amused with her euphemism. 

                "I'm not questioning you. I know well enough that Black was never a servant of Voldemort!" 

                "Then why did you let me look like a complete idiot to Fudge, protesting Black's innocence while you just stood back and watched." She pressed her lips together, and frowned accusingly. "You fed me to the wolves. I never thought you'd turn your back on me. Someone else, perhaps, but not you. But don't worry. You've made it very clear where I stand." She stared coldly and was pleased to see that her words had a slight impact on his stoic façade. 

                "There's more to it than that." 

                "What? And I'm just too naïve to understand? I know about Tara." She tried to measure the triumph in her voice. This was not something to gloat over. And the name had an obvious effect, she noted as he faltered a bit. 

                "He told you?" His voice was electric with hatred. 

                She nodded simply.

                "Well, then. You will need to hear the real story, not the pack of lies that he passed off as the truth." He resumed his pacing once again. "I suppose he told you she was an informant. That she was passing Voldemort crucial information from inside the Ministry." 

                She nodded again, confirming his statements.

                "He believed that she was guilty simply because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time…and because she was my friend." He stopped and stared out of the window, fighting to maintain his calm. Jude listened in silence. 

                "Black was the first one on the scene. It was a set-up, of course. The informant found out that the person leaking information to the Ministry from inside Voldemort's ranks told  Magical Law Enforcement that it was the next strike on the list. The Ministry's raid had been turned into an ambush. I asked Tara to meet me there. She was supposed to warn the Auror Squad on the job, but some rookie had taken the initiative on himself. He had been watching for sometime, but he couldn't have heard what was said between us, because he killed her. He thought she was an informant simply because she was at the site of a raid, speaking to me. He was lauded a hero while she was buried a traitor. Black killed her without the first thought of justice, of the difference between the truth and what he wanted to believe. 

                "So, why should I have bothered to show mercy to him, to show him justice, when he did not pay her the same courtesy?" he concluded bitterly.

                She thought for a minute. Black had killed an innocent person by mistake. It made sense, but it still didn't feel right that he should have been punished for those crimes on the pretense of another. 

                "Because it was the right thing to do. He's guilty of her death, not of those twelve Muggles' deaths, nor Peter's." 

                "It's the same…he would have paid for a murder. It doesn't matter whether it was for Tara or for Pettigrew," he spat contemptuously.

                "It does matter," she said finally. "It matters because Peter is not dead." 

                He turned to look at her fully, her words had an impact.

                "Peter's alive. And because Black almost paid for his crimes, he is free and probably running back to his Master as we speak." Her voice was calm and measured, all emotion having been spent.

                "Are you sure? It was in the paper…"

                "Oh, I'm sure. I saw him," she stated simply.

                "When?"

                "In the Shrieking Shack. He was there…he was Ron's pet rat. But you wouldn't listen to Black or Lupin…and I doubt you would have believed me."

                After a long pause, he persisted, but in a gentler manner. "I still believe he should have died. I can hardly bear the fact that he's out there…walking free when she's dead."

                Jude looked at her feet. It was absurd that she should feel the least bit jealous, but there it was. She was beginning to hate this Tara. 

                "Well, then let's just agree to disagree." She did not look up as she said this. She did not see him staring thoughtfully at her, discerning her feelings by examining her expression. 

                "You're still angry," he observed finally. 

                She still looked down and away, confirming his conclusion. 

                "You resent the fact that I didn't agree with you—," 

                "No," she said blandly. "You chose her." She felt foolish for having admitted it. "And I understand…she must have been a good friend." 

                "The best person I knew," he said, moving around the desk to stand next to her.

                She nodded. Victory was conceded to this ideal of a friend. She won. She was the better person. 

                "But I didn't give up on you, if that's what you think." He placed a hand on her shoulder. She wanted to pull away from him, but couldn't muster the strength. "I believe Black is guilty. I don't want him to be able to hurt anyone like that again. And I couldn't bear to see you end up like her. That is why I didn't want Fudge to believe you…why I didn't  want to believe you."

                He gripped her other shoulder and turned her gently to face him. She did so only reluctantly.

                "I didn't mean for you to get hurt," he sounded sincere and she supposed she believed him, but she wanted to hold on to her anger just a little longer before she forgave him. She didn't say anything to that. "I would never let anything happen to you…neither would Dumbledore. You were really in no danger." 

                She nodded dully. 

                "I'm not asking you to forgive me now, but I hope you'll consider it. I'd hate to lose another friend because of Black." 

                He released her after a few moments. It was clear that she had nothing more to say on the subject at the moment. He went back to his desk and she turned to leave the study. At the door, she paused and turned. The professor was already bent over his papers. 

                "I forgive you," she said quietly, barely audible from that distance as she gritted her teeth. She was conceding victory. "But I'm still mad," she frowned like a scolded child.

                He smiled in thanks briefly before returning to work. 

                "Come on, Darcy," she called as she pulled the door open. "Let's go for a walk." The dog trotted over to her and out the door.

                "I hope you're not going to go out dressed like that." The professor's voice echoed after her. She glanced down at her feet. She was still wearing her pajamas, one bare foot was bandaged, and she could only imagine the mad tangle her hair was in. She gave due credit to the professor for having fought with her, maintaining a straight face with such a ridiculous adversary to contend with. She headed up the stairs, a bit wobbly, to her room to change.

                ***

                Darcy stood at the edge of the lake, her paws sinking into the squishy mud, barking at the newest curiosity to claim her attention: the giant squid. Jude watched in amusement as her beloved dog searched her new surroundings. The dog was enamored with the strange wonders that comprised the Hogwarts castle and grounds. She had already been there nearly two months, yet the hound always seemed to discover something new to explore.

                "Darcy, come back, Love." Jude called her dog back from the lake, holding her hands out to her as the hound bounded over to her happily. Darcy barreled into her legs and received her owner's attention greedily.

                "Here, you want this, girl?" Jude held out a ball and immediately threw it as far off into the distance as she could manage to send it. "Go get it." 

                The dog raced after her ball over the sunny grounds. Jude laughed, really laughed, for the first time in…she couldn't remember. The dog was comically wrestling the rogue ball to the ground before she brought it back obediently to her master. 

                She smiled and grappled with the hound for possession of the slobbery ball, but Darcy held fast. Soon, they were in a heap on the grass, Jude laughing lightly as the dog growled, caught up in the ruse of their fight. Finally, Jude won out—she had the ball. 

                Teasing her dog, holding the prize out to her, but snatching it back as Darcy lunged, she hid it behind her back as the dog made frantic moves to steal it back. 

                "You're not going to get it that way," she smirked at the barking hound. But Darcy was no longer paying attention to her. A new voice caught her attention and she bounded over to the stranger walking down the path toward them. 

                Jude got to her feet, brushing the grass and dirt from her jeans, and went to meet the dark figure. It was Professor Snape and he was calling to her. As she neared, she saw he held something in one hand. It looked like a letter. 

                Darcy jumped and barked playfully around the professor's feet, but he ignored her. He handed the letter to Jude as she approached with a questioning look on her face. 

                "What's this?" she asked, turning the letter over in her hand. She did not recognize the handwriting and the script did not seem like the official writing of the Ministry. 

                He shook his head. "I haven't the slightest clue. It just arrived for you."

                She frowned at the letter but did not open it. 

                "Thanks for coming all the way out here just to deliver a silly letter, but—," Jude smirked.

                He smiled. "That was not my sole reason. I have news."

                "Really? Like what?" she said, intrigued. They both turned and headed back up the path to the castle. 

                "Ranelagh's finally retired." 

                "About time," Jude scoffed. "The only teacher older than that guy is Binns." 

                "So…" he prompted. "That begs the question of who's to replace him."

                "It does?" She was being difficult on purpose. It was amusing to her.

                He gave her a hassled look. "You're such a pain in the ass sometimes, do you know that?" 

                "Language, Professor, language," she scolded, frowning. She called Darcy back from the muddy banks of the lake once more.

                "So, do you have a guess as to who the next Muggle Studies teacher will be?" He raised an eyebrow in regal inquiry. 

                She drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the letter in her hands. "Voldemort," she answered with sarcastic authority.

                "Close," Snape replied, stopping on the path and turning to her. "It's you, Jude. Dumbledore's going to ask you to take the position. You really had no idea?" 

                She frowned and scrunched her brow. "You aren't serious, are you?" 

                "Why would I make that up?"

                Eyeing him with scrutiny, she persisted with her questions. "How did you hear that?"

                He smiled with smug superiority. "The Headmaster told me." 

                Shaking her head, she started again for the castle. "He's really lost it, then, hasn't he? What's he thinking? Me…a teacher? I'm not even qualified—," 

                "Not qualified?" he laughed coolly. "Jude, you're the most qualified person for the job that I can think of. You were the top of your class here and you spent four years at a Muggle university, where you received honors." 

                "In Literature!" she scoffed. "I don't know anything about it—I didn't even take Muggle Studies when I went here—how am I supposed to teach it?"

                "You've spent a good part of your life as one, that's good for starters." 

                "Yeah, but I also spent three years as the apprentice of the crazy wack job bent on eradicating them from the planet," she countered expertly.

                "So you have first-hand knowledge and experience on both sides of the fence. You have invaluable perspective." He smirked at the irony of the situation.

                "You think I should accept?" she asked cautiously. "Do you think it's because he's simply looking for a way to keep me around, give me something to do while I watch out for Harry?" Her voice was laden with suspicion. 

                "I think it's because you're the best for the job," he answered honestly. 

                She walked in silent thought the rest of the way to the castle. He left for his office as she climbed the stairs to clean up a bit. At the top of the landing when she was alone, she tore open the letter and read it with little enthusiasm. 

                ***

                "He wants to meet me," she said, her chin resting on her hands, fingers interlocked over the meticulous surface of his desk. She was sitting in his chair, watching as he tested his newest creation. 

                "When?" he asked, paying only cursory attention to their conversation. He didn't know why she insisted on asking him for advice on matters in which she'd already made up her mind.

                "Tomorrow…at the Leaky Cauldron. Oh, well. At least if everything goes to hell, I can get pissed." At this statement, he looked up at her with a mildly chastising glare. She smiled defiantly. 

                "So you've decided to go?" It was more of a statement. Repeating her decision seemed to put it in perspective for her. He obliged. It was their usual song and dance. 

                "I guess…I mean…I do owe him the chance to explain, don't I?" She watched as Darcy sniffed around some curious oddities in jars of liquid. 

                "You don't owe him a thing." His answer was clipped with marked disdain. It was no big secret that he hated the former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. The fact that he was Jude's brother, and therefore partially responsible for her abandonment, only added to the long list of reasons why he despised the man. 

                "Yes, I do. It's not really his fault, I guess." She sighed and closed her eyes. She didn't hold the guy responsible, but that didn't mean that everything was fine between them. 

                "You're the only one who can make that decision, Jude." 

                "Yeah, I know." She looked over the letter once more before snapping her fingers, watching the paper turn to ash under angry orange flames. "That doesn't make it easy."

***

                The hour approached and her apprehension grew. She'd decided to go, to meet him, but she didn't plan on being what he expected. She made sure she was at least fifteen minutes late. On the way to the pub, she grabbed a pack of cigarettes and dark sunglasses. 

                After chain-smoking three to calm her rattling nerves, she pushed her way into the crowded bar. Her eyes took a few seconds to focus behind the smoky lenses, but then she saw him. He hadn't noticed her walk in—he was staring out of the grimy window as the crowds passed on the street. He looked as worn and tattered as ever. She smirked, making her way over to his table. They were truly a pair: he seemed ill and exhausted and she was still thin and harried-looking from her latest escapades. She still walked with a bit of a limp and a few of the scrapes had added to her collection of scars. 

                He smiled and stood as she took her seat across from him. She didn't return the smile, but nodded curtly, remaining hidden, secure behind a hard façade and cheap sunglasses. 

                "Thank you for coming, Jude." 

                "No problem," she answered shortly. She lit another cigarette and noticed that he squinted a bit at the smoke and coughed. "Does this bother you?" she asked, trying not to sound like a complete bitch, but failed miserably. She felt a pang of guilt at her behavior, but was resolved to keep it up.

                "Not at all," he said politely, but she knew it bothered him, his heightened senses pricked by the stifling smoke. 

                She ordered bourbon from a passing waiter and settled back into her chair. 

                "So, what have you been doing with yourself for the past few months?" he asked casually, taking a sip of his tea. 

                She shrugged. "Nothing, really. And you?" 

                He twisted the teacup thoughtfully on the table. "Writing, actually. I do some free-lance work for the _Prophet. Nothing big, but I like it."_

                "Well, that's interesting." She cursed the waiter silently for being so slow. This would all be a lot easier with a drink in her hand. She settled instead for a drag on her cigarette. 

                "I hear you've just been asked to fill Ranelagh's shoes. Muggle Studies. That's pretty impressive for someone your age. Hogwarts doesn't usually employ teachers as young as you are." He smiled warmly, a comforting and contagious smile. 

                "Thanks." She had to fight to maintain her stoic calm. She battled the inclination to be nice. "But it's a little ironic, don't you think? Someone like me teaching Muggle Studies." She smirked coldly. 

                "Someone like you?" He shook his head, not following.

                "Surely _someone told you. You must know all about it…my past. Must have been a shocker to find out that such a person could be your long-lost little sis." _

                "Yes, I know. But I know that's not who you are now—," 

                "And how do you know that?" she spat with ill-concealed contempt. "You don't know the first thing about me."

                "And you know just as much about me if you think any of that would matter." He matched her tone amiably. She was impressed. 

                "Alright, Remus Lupin. Who the hell are you, then?" The waiter placed her bourbon on the table in front of her then skittered off quickly, eyeing the two suspiciously. She drained it immediately. 

                "Do you really want to know," he asked evenly, unmoved by her reckless behavior. He knew she was just trying to ruffle some feathers. 

                "Oh, yes. I want to know everything." 

                "My father's name is Jonathan and my mother's name is Julia. He was a wizard and she was a witch. I was born in Little Malvern, as were you." His tone was clipped and official, mocking even. "We were happy until I was bitten…"

                He faltered. Glancing over to gage her reaction, he was frustrated to see her staring, cold and unmoved, statuesque. 

                "They split up because of it. My mum moved to London and I stayed with her sometimes, but I lived mostly with my dad…I knew they both still loved me, but I guess it wasn't enough.

                "Anyway, he met someone else—a Muggle woman named Agatha. She was nice, but we kept my secret from her. I never had many friends after…well, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. But then I went away to school where I met Sirius, James and Peter." He was staring at the teacup in front of him. 

                "They had a daughter, my dad and Agatha, and I adored her." He looked up once again and was pleased to discern that something in her stony façade had moved, however slight. It was progress. 

                "You look like her, you know…Agatha, I mean." He smiled kindly, hoping for a word…something.

                She looked away, out the dirty window. "That's not quite a compliment, you know." 

                He nodded. "I didn't mean to offend you…you look like your father as well."

                "Is he still alive?" she asked, trying to maintain her calm, but a nervous hope was diffuse throughout her words. 

                He shook his head sadly. "He died…five years ago." She could tell it was a painful subject for him. He obviously loved his father. "He was a good man." 

                She looked away again. "Then why did he let me go if he was so good?" The guilt she felt for asking the question was overwhelmed by her anger at the man. 

                "He didn't let you go." He was emphatic. "Agatha took you one night and left without a word. I guess she found out about my father being a wizard…or the fact that I was a werewolf…I don't know. They had a fight over something and she just took off in the middle of the night. We never heard from her again. You were two years old then." 

                She frowned, tossing the spent cigarette in the ashtray. "She must have found out about me as well…soon after that. The report says I was dropped off by a woman with blond hair by the name of Elliot…around the age of two." 

                He shut his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. "I'm so sorry, Jude. I had no idea she abandoned you. My father looked for you until he died. And I've tried to find you ever since." 

                She put a hand to her mouth, trying to get a handle on her feelings. Anger was being replaced by sorrow rapidly and she was not ready to let her rage go. 

                "Well, I was fine, as you can see. You needn't have wasted the effort. I can take care of myself." Her chin was trembling and hot tears stung her eyes. 

                "I can see that." His voice was kind, despite her best efforts to anger him, to make him feel just an inkling of the pain she felt. "You're an amazing person, Jude Elliot. Your father would have been proud of you."

                "Proud of me? I have not done anything worthy of such pride." She was shaking with something other than rage…hurt, maybe, but she was no longer angry. "I am a murderer, a monster. He would have been ashamed to know me." 

                "You risked your life to prove the innocence of a man you didn't even know…a man you had absolutely no obligation to…my last remaining friend. That's something he would have been proud of." He watched as she wiped her eyes beneath the dark glasses and smiled. "You're no monster. Leave the self-loathing to me, will you? If anyone should have been shocked, it should have been you. On top of everything you had to deal with, I tell you that you have a werewolf for a brother. If anyone's earned the appellation of monster, I have." 

                Jude smiled at this. "Please. You didn't decide to become a werewolf…it was an accident. I chose to become what I am. I chose this." 

                "Well, we're quite the pair, are we not?" He laughed and was glad to see that she smiled as well. "Still, our father loved us. Of that, I am certain. And your mother never deserved you." He retrieved a piece of worn parchment. "He left this for you. He never gave up hope that he would find you." 

                Jude stared at the folded paper in front of her. She let her hand rest on the rough surface, summoning the courage to read what her father had wanted her to know. Staring for a long time at the yellowed letter, she was startled to feel a gentle hand on her shoulder. He'd moved to stand at her side. 

                She opened the letter finally. 

                _Goodnight my angel, _

_                Time to close your eyes and save these questions for another day._

_                I think I know what you've been asking me._

_                I think you know what I've been trying to say._

_                I promised I would never leave you_

_                And you should always know_

_                Wherever you may go, no matter where you are_

_                I never will be far away._

                Dropping the letter on the table, she removed the security of the sunglasses. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands. 

                "He was always a little on the sentimental side…that was the lullaby he always sang for you." __


	34. Old Thieves Make Good Jailers

Disclaimer: All characters, ideas, themes, etc. associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. I own everything else. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. The term _Xenophobia_ appears in this chapter accompanied by the definition as found in the _Oxford Dictionary_. Ideas stolen from Ignacy Krasicki can be found in his novel _The Adventures of Mr. Nicholas Wisdom—a sort of Polish__ Candid (Book 3, chapter 11)._

Author's Note: This is the chapter that begins _Goblet of Fire—enjoy._

Chapter Thirty-Four: Old Thieves Make Good Jailers

_'We've got these chains hanging 'round our necks,_

_People want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath._

_Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same,_

_When temptation calls, we just look away.'_

_Barenaked Ladies, What A Good Boy_

                "Well, here goes nothing, Darcy." Jude ruffled the dog's ears nervously as the first of her students ambled through the door. Her companion, Darcy, lie at the foot of the desk, watching the sixth and seventh year students take their seats. 

                Jude smiled amiably at the kids as they eyed her and the dog warily. She knew how unconventional all of this must seem—against McGonagall's protests, Jude was granted the right to wear Muggle clothing in place of the traditional robes of the staff. She surveyed herself momentarily, concluding that she presented a respectable and professional appearance in black trousers and a crisp, tailored blouse. No lasting damage had been done to the school's reputation due to her lack of respect for tradition. 

                One rule broken on top of many others, she lamented without much remorse. She was sure dogs were not allowed to accompany their masters to class, but she didn't think she could face her students without the familiar comfort of Darcy close by. She was nervous. 

                There was plenty to be apprehensive about, she mused as the vacant seats became fewer and fewer. The night before, bare minutes prior to the feast, Dumbledore had informed her that the Tri-Wizard Tournament would be held there that year and that students from Hogwarts would be competing against two schools on the continent—Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. This in itself was nothing to worry over, Jude mused—Harry was too young to compete in the highly dangerous competition. Her only peace of mind was that the contingents from both schools would not arrive until Halloween, giving her two months until she had to face him. The Headmaster of Durmstrang was the cause for a good part of her apprehension. Igor Karkaroff did not summon fond remembrances to mind and the news of the visit had prompted Jude to withdraw her consent to teach. Dumbledore, however, had talked her out of it, convincing her that she needed to stay despite the uncomfortable proximity to Karkaroff.

                Then there was Moody. 

                Alastor Moody conjured more of a fear in Jude than Karkaroff could ever hope to elicit. Igor was a joke, but Moody was a threat. Things may have changed, but not much, Jude had noticed at the feast. Moody's shifty eyes settled more often on her than she would have liked. He knew who she was just as she had no mistake about him. When Dumbledore introduced his new teachers to the students, she was shocked to learn that he would be filling the vacancy left by Professor Lupin, her brother. And by Moody's face, she knew the news of her appointment had a similar effect on him. The only thing that had stilled her anxiety in that moment was the rare smile Professor Snape offered beyond Moody's scowling and suspicious expression. 

                She sighed as the door closed behind the last student, and she banished her thoughts quickly. She refused to let Moody intimidate her or cause her to lose focus. She was here to teach and she aimed to do just that. Letting her eyes take in the students before her, her gaze rested on two identical crops of red hair. She grinned. McGonagall had already warned her that her first class contained the two infamous pranksters, Fred and George Weasley, of whom she'd heard much. 

                Turning her attention to the class at large, she began a little nervously, but soon fell into a comfortable rapport.

                "Many of you have, no doubt, heard that this class is easy…a piece of cake…least amount of effort needed for the maximum return. Well, it may have been that way under Professor Ranelagh, I know it was when I was a student here…but I will be expecting just a little bit more from you this year. If you want a class that you can bullshit your way to full marks, Professor Trelawney's door is always open."

                Jude was delighted when the groans from her disenchanted students metamorphosed into giggles. Turning to her desk, she placed her hand on the back of her chair and noticed the Weasleys exchange glances diffused with anticipation. She pulled the chair away and perched on the edge of the desk instead, smirking in triumph before continuing. 

                "You may call me Jude, or Miss Elliot if you wish, but I prefer Jude. I do not wish to be addressed as Professor." Jude glanced about and saw a few scandalized faces in her audience. Unconventional it may be, but she had her reasons for such requests. "It is a title of respect that I do not believe I have yet earned. I may endeavor to do so, but until then, Jude will do just fine." A disarming smile did the trick and the apprehensive faces were soon at ease. 

                She looked shrewdly over the class before continuing on. The two redheads were alarmingly silent. Approaching the board, she heard hurried whispers behind her and knew immediately who was speaking to whom. She picked up a thick piece of dusty chalk. The voices were hushed in anticipation.

                Putting the chalk to the board, she began to write but suddenly turned to face the startled class. 

                "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley," she called, clearly gratified to see their identical heads snap up at the sound of her voice. "Your father works for the Department of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, does he not?"

                "Yes," they chorused, notes of surprise diffuse in their voices. 

                She smiled pleasantly. "Splendid! Then you two wouldn't mind coming up here and listing examples of Muggle technology that makes the absence of magical ability insignificant." She tossed the fat piece of chalk over the head of a small brunette in Ravenclaw robes to the Weasley on the right. He caught it with a lazy agility, but with a horrified look on his face, he tossed it to his brother, who treated the chalk in the same manner. They volleyed it back and forth as if it was a grenade missing its pin.

                "Well?" she asked in a hopeful tone.

                The boys rose cautiously from their seats and approached the board as Marie Antoinette must have approached the guillotine. One of the boys held the chalk carefully in front of him as if it would explode any moment. He put the chalk to the board and gave her a questioning look. His brother watched with nervous anticipation.

                One more pleading look, biting his lip anxiously and shifting his eyes suspiciously from the teacher to the volatile chalk, was all it took. She relented. 

                "All I want to know is how many Filibusters you transfigured to look like chalk?" she asked with a clever smile.

                "All of them," they replied guiltily. 

                As the students filed out after she had finished, she surveyed her desk. The surface was littered with Filibuster Fireworks, Exploding Snaps, mercifully un-detonated Dungbombs, and a myriad of unidentifiable items that Jude had no doubt were the boys' very own line of mischief-making ammunition. 

                "Fred, George," she called to them as they were about to leave. 

                They stood in front of her desk, littered with their arsenal, identical looks of shock spread across their faces. 

                "May I ask you a question, Miss Elliot?" Fred ventured.

                "Certainly," she said amiably.

                "How did you do that?" he asked, astonishment apparent on every feature of his face. In that moment he looked just like Charlie, Jude mused. "No teacher has ever survived, especially a rookie."

                She shrugged unceremoniously. "Old thieves make good jailers." 

                "You pulled pranks?" George asked with unmasked amusement. "Were you any good?"

                "The best," she said, remembering fondly the times she'd slathered McGonagall's chair with super glue and got off, scot-free. She couldn't remember now who caught the blame for that one, but the priceless look on McGonagall's face would stay with her forever. 

                "That remains to be seen," Fred retorted haughtily. 

                Jude raised her eyebrows and smiled slyly. "Let the games begin, then." 

                The two boys exchanged curious glances that melted into mischievous grins. 

                She motioned to the pile of contraband on her desk. "I believe you will be needing this back." She smiled and hefted one of the noxious and offensive dungbombs. "I'd hate to see you two helpless against the droves of innocent students and teachers out there." 

                They stared at her, unbelieving. "You're giving it back?"

                She nodded. "On the condition that you leave these in Gryffindor Tower." The dungbomb she held was relinquished to Fred, who treated it like a sacred relic. "Let's try to maintain some dignity, shall we?"

                She smiled as the two left her classroom. In the hushed conference they held outside the door, Jude discerned that she'd made a favorable impression. 

                "Well, that wasn't so bad, now was it, Darcy?" She knelt on the floor by the dog, lavishing her full attention on it. Still, she knew that however well her first class had gone, there were still more to come.

***

                The afternoon sun came in through the tall windows, gilding the room with its golden hue. Jude was not ready and she didn't think she would ever be. But the students were seated in front of her. It was zero hour. 

                This was the class she'd been dreading all day. He sat there with his friends, smirking snidely and eyeing her with cold disdain. Draco Malfoy would be merciless—she knew this and she had prepared for it. Only now she didn't feel adequate for the challenge. 

                "Good afternoon," she greeted the students politely, repeating much of the same disclaimers that had accompanied her former class. "I will be replacing Professor Ranelagh. My name is Jude, but if you wish to call me Miss Elliot, that is fine by me. Do not call me Professor if you expect an answer. That title should be reserved for the older and more respectable." She perched on her desk, becoming more comfortable in front of this intimidating audience. "I am neither old nor respectable," she finished with a wry smile that was appreciated by the majority of the class, as was her witticism regarding the other—older—teachers. 

                "Well, at least you seem to grasp the reality." A cold drawl stayed her remarks. She closed her eyes a moment, gaining her composure before leveling a measured glance on her student. She'd stumbled right into that one. She deserved whatever was to come next. "Although, I must say I am shocked at your cavalier attitude as regards dragging such an illustrious institution through the mud. You should at least show some remorse for sullying the Hogwarts' name." His entourage giggled as he remained stoic.

                She smiled a cold, unfeeling smile. She would not let him get the upper hand, her daily ration of graciousness wasted on the Weasleys already. 

                "Mr. Malfoy," she began evenly. "I was merely referring to experience, not ability." 

                "Truly?" he interrupted. "With you, I couldn't tell the difference. You lack both. Therefore, I did not realize a distinction was necessary."

                A buzz of whispers flooded the silence with a hushed, busy sound. Jude stood, holding her ground firmly. Her eyes, a hard, gunmetal gray, locked his gracefully malicious silver ones. 

                "I am not offended that you doubt my ability to teach you, Mr. Malfoy. Indeed, that is my lot—to prove that I am worthy of the task. It is always the duty of a new teacher to gain the respect of his or her students. And I am up to the challenge."

                He smirked cruelly. "We shall see."

                She did not look away from his threatening glare for an interminable moment. The room remained silent, the tension between the opponents having suffocated any other movement. 

                Turning slowly, she withdrew her gaze to the rest of the class. In one swift motion, she stood in front of the expansive and little-used blackboard of the classroom. She wrote a word in clear, crisp letters on the surface with the chalk she'd replaced after her run-in with Fred and George. 

                "Can anyone tell me what this means?" she asked the class frankly and watched as a few tentative hands rose above the desks. Malfoy, arms crossed rebelliously yet elegantly across his chest, watched her like a predator—an elegant and pampered cat eyeing a mouse. She wondered if he knew how hard the mouse could bite? He would undoubtedly find out by the end of the year.

                "Neville?" she called to a shy, round-faced boy she recognized from her hours spent undercover in the Gryffindor Common Room. He jumped as she said his name, obviously terrified to answer. "It's all right, Neville. There are no wrong answers in this class. Give it a go."

                He seemed a little relieved and ventured a guess. "Xenophobia?" He scrunched his nose in thought after reading the script on the board, blushing furiously as the class turned to observe his answer. "A fear…er…of other people?"

                Jude smiled and nodded. "That's good." She returned to her perch atop the desk, surveying the curious looks from her students. Malfoy and a few of his friends alone looked bored. "Xenophobia is the extreme dislike or fear of foreigners, their customs, religions, etc. Can anyone tell me how this applies to our area of study? How does this idea of Xenophobia relate to Muggles?" 

                A few more hands shot up with more courage this time. She pointed to a Ravenclaw with black hair and dark features. "Your name?"

                The girl smiled. "Padma." Jude nodded, urging her to continue with her exploration of the topic. "The Wizarding Community has, for centuries, maintained a xenophobic attitude toward the Muggle population. I guess we study the ideology of xenophobia because this extreme dislike and fear of Muggles may one day end up hindering us. I believe that there is much we can learn from each other."

                Jude beamed for a moment after Padma had finished her speech, but her expression faltered, as did Padma's when the silence was broken by lazy, disdainful applause. Malfoy was glaring at the girl with open disregard, a superior incredulity diffused over his face. 

                "Do you have something you would like to add, Mr. Malfoy?" Jude asked equably. 

                "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he said, turning to the Ravenclaw girl. "Your ideology, however pretty and rosy it seems to you, Patil, is flawed. I do not believe there is anything we can learn from them. And though they can undoubtedly learn a great deal from us, I do not see why we have any obligation to help Muggles in any way. It would be disastrous to attempt such a thing and you're a fool for thinking so." 

                Jude nodded briefly in his direction, his composure faltering for one sweet second. His disdainful haughtiness returned once again to mask his confusion at her response. "As I said, every opinion is valid in this class." The enraged expressions born of Malfoy's retort metamorphosed into looks of shock and incredulity. "As long as you respect the opinions of your classmates." Jude leveled a withering glance on Malfoy, who looked nonplused by such censure. Padma seemed near tears. 

                "While Padma expressed a serenely Eutopic vision of what could be, Mr. Malfoy presented a strong, and very real opposition. And even though he pointed out the flaw in Miss Patil's ideal, there is an inherent inconsistency in his own plan. Does anyone see it?"

                A hand in the back of the classroom pulled Jude's attention away from the angry, indignant expression on Malfoy's face. She smiled and asked the boy's name.

                "Ernie," he replied simply. "He said that Muggles have a lot to learn from us, but I think it's the other way around. They don't have anything to learn from us—where we use magic, they have innovated…come up with ways to get around it. The necessity of keeping our magic a secret hinders us from offering our assets to them, but we can definitely incorporate their work into our own society and…I don't know…diversify? We don't really rely solely on magic—we have lived off of the same means Muggles have since the beginning of time. We've only deluded ourselves into thinking we live differently. Imagine the advantage it would give us if we merged Muggle technology with our own magic." He was talking excitedly, apparently wrapped up in the what-if's this class was designed to explore. Jude was ecstatic that the discussion had elicited such emotion. 

                "That is a very keen observation, Ernie—one that we will further discuss as the year progresses. I am happy to note that you hit Mr. Malfoy's oversight right on the head. He suggested that they have much to learn from us, yet our isolationist policies forbid our teaching them anything. A good argument with potential to stir feelings of nationalism and pride in our community, yet hopeless and futile in its arrogance."

                She regretted it the moment she said it.

                "You think I'm arrogant?" Malfoy bellowed in the midst of his charged entourage. 

                "I think you expressed the opinion of a large portion of our society amiably, Mr. Malfoy." Jude quelled his anger with a neutral expression. "Your pride in your abilities and those of your society do you justice. But it is when such feelings hinder us that we must make the effort to examine them. Miss Patil's altruistic views of a universal cooperation, if put into practice, may prove just as much a hindrance. That is why we must strive for an objectivity that is difficult, if not impossible to achieve. That is the purpose of this class, and I am happy to note that the subject is still controversial enough to elicit such lively discussion." She smiled with sweet satisfaction as she saw Malfoy's face fall. She would not play his game of right and wrong, black and white. Ernie had already demonstrated that they were dealing with complex hues of gray.

                The class dwindled and she packed up her notes, preparing to leave the room. Neville offered a shy smile as he turned to leave behind the indignant Miss Patil. She returned the kind gesture, pleased to note that the notoriously self-conscious student had inched a bit out of his shell in her very first class with him. A few girls remained to adore Darcy for a moment. As they finally filtered through the door, she saw Malfoy glaring at her from his desk. He'd apparently dismissed his gang, as he sat alone. She favored him with a scrutinizing stare for a few wordless moments. Then she turned to the door, calling for Darcy to follow her. 

                "May I have a word with you, _Professor?" Malfoy stood at the door, leaning against it lazily as she paused, halfway down the hall. It was not a request but a command. She would have gladly heard him out, but he refused to obey her wishes. She continued to walk, the dog trotting at her heels. _

                "Are you deliberately ignoring a student?" he barked angrily, following her away from the classroom. "I should have you fired for this, Jude!"

                She smiled in triumph, and turned. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she said magnanimously. "But your threats have no weight with me. I do not fear being fired, but I do not like to fail. And to cower to you would be to fail you in every way possible."

                He rolled his eyes and sighed laboriously. "That's exactly my point. Dumbledore runs this school as if it was some sort of charity institution, taking in the destitute and deranged instead of hiring truly qualified staff."

                "Did you stop me simply to insult me? You should have done it when you had an audience, Mr. Malfoy." She started to leave but was stayed once more at a word. 

                "Why did you do it?" he asked, startling her a bit. She regarded him with a slight confusion. She could not auger what he intended with his question. "Why did you defend my statement in class?"

                She smiled. So that's what was bothering him. "Because, although you intended it to be a barb, something to induce the class into chaos, I believe that you spoke intelligently and made a valid point. Plus, I knew what you were trying to do." She smirked with a smug superiority that matched the expression of the haughty little boy. 

                "Very clever, Jude," he consented graciously, yet with a malign sort of respect. It was no compliment. 

                "Now, allow me to ask you a question, Mr. Malfoy." She folded her arms across her chest and glared evenly at he boy who smiled slyly and held his arms out at his sides, offering a target. 

                "Shoot."

                "Why are you taking Muggle Studies?"

                "Why are you teaching Muggle Studies?" he retorted, circumventing her question. "Community Service?"

                She shook her head. "Just answer the question."

                "My father's suggestion. 'Know thine enemy', it is unwise to assume you know what you are up against." 

                Jude raised her eyebrows in mild astonishment. It sounded like Lucius, but it surprised her that he would answer her so candidly. 

                "The enemy?" Jude asked smoothly. "Muggles…or me?" 

                "Does it make a difference?" He shoved his hands carelessly, elegantly in his pockets. She marked his natural grace, feeling like a toad, standing in front of him.

                She only smiled and turned to walk away, calling to him over her shoulder. "We shall see."

***

                It happened later than she expected. 

                Almost a month had passed before Moody cornered her. She knew he'd been watching for some time—she could feel his eyes on her everywhere she went. It must come from years of suspicion…there was no way that he could ever forget that she had been his target once…she probably always will be. How could a fox simply stop hunting a rabbit? 

                She had taken Darcy for a walk around the lake every day after her classes since she began teaching. It had become a habit—she used the time to blow off steam from her spars with Malfoy. But today of all days, he was there…waiting. 

                Class had gone badly, for once. Malfoy got the upper hand in an argument. She was starting to fear that he wasn't just repeating his father's ideals mindlessly…no, it seemed he put far too much thought in it for that. What terrified her the most was that he was starting to believe the awful things he'd been expected to say all his life. She was lost in thought over the possibility that it might be too late when…

                "Good afternoon, Miss Elliot." It was a voice she learned to fear. Learned the hard way.

                She simply glared at him and moved on. He stopped her once more. 

                "Imagine my shock to find Dumbledore had hired you of all people. He may actually believe he can trust you, but you've proven you're not the loyal type…not the kind to trust." Moody eyed her sharply. Jude turned away to look out over the grassy expanse where Darcy was splashing at the shore of the lake in pursuit of a strange fish. 

                "Only those who have my trust need worry about its validity, Moody. And you don't happen to be one of them. I don't give a damn what you think either way." Jude's voice was bland, almost bored. She would not give him the satisfaction of eliciting any emotion from her. He was just a suspicious, cranky old man who still dwelt on the fact that she'd gotten away from him and his Aurors years ago. 

                "You may not care what I think, Miss Elliot. But there are plenty who share my sentiments." He smiled cruelly, the effect heightened by his generally terrifying appearance. "And you will not escape judgment—everyone will be measured and, I assure you, you will be found lacking." She saw his eyes flick to her wrist, which she instinctively covered with her hand, cursing her own weakness apparent in such an action. He stalked away without a further word and she was left to glare malignantly after him.

                "Crazy bastard!" she hissed, calling her dog away from the lake and marching back up the path to the castle.

***

                A stack of papers, ignored on her lap, her feet flung up on Professor Snape's desk, she watched him move busily around his meticulous laboratory. 

                "I think I'm just being paranoid. Maybe it's Dumbledore's idea of a joke to have us both teach at the same school. I don't know…but doesn't Moody seem a bit more…oh, I don't know…madder?" She watched him empty a flask of green liquid into a purple solution. 

                "Perhaps paranoia is heightened with age…he is ancient, you know." He seemed disinterested in the level of Moody's craziness. She shook the suspicion from her head…maybe Moody was rubbing off on her. She was becoming paranoid too.

                She returned to her papers. The name on the next essay caught her eye and she read with growing interest, leaving Snape to his task and Darcy to her exploration of the dark spaces of the dungeons. 

                _The Benefits of Studying Muggles_

_                By Draco Malfoy_

_                The title of the assignment assumes too much. Studying Muggles produces no practical, applicable knowledge to the world in which we live and breathe, a world I have seen change too much in too small a space of time. By studying those without magic, we assume that they are worth studying above ourselves—that they are superior in a manner that we must strive to emulate. I am a citizen of that lesser world, and to those of an honest mind, the word citizen is not without meaning. It is a calling that entails responsibilities. _

                Jude sat upright, straight as a board, the papers falling away, littering the floor at her feet. She called to the professor to listen before she continued to read the manuscript aloud. Her voice was urgent and alarmed.

                _The first and most all-embracing of these is that one should be of the greatest possible use to his native land. To defend one's country courageously or to administer it well are not the only ways to serve one's country: there are other ways of fulfilling this duty, and no citizen is exempt from doing so. My country, that to which I owe my duty, is the way of life my family and I have upheld for generations. My responsibility to my country is to know myself and the difference between what I am and what others are not. I do a disservice to my community by enumerating the imagined virtues of another, striving to purge my bad qualities in order to replace them with the golden ways of the sacred Muggle. In studying those oblivious to magic, the only benefit I can see is to debase my own beliefs, my own principles…and those of my family…those of my country. If the objective in the study is the realization of an entire society that they have been misguided, that they have chosen the wrong path, that everything they strive to protect is worthless, then the pursuit of such knowledge is useful—in fact it is indispensable. If not, then it is a futile attempt to chase golden ideals, pretty thoughts that, in practice, would destroy our society like a blight._

_                It may well happen, in fact it is almost certain to, that one will not be properly rewarded for serving his country. Rewards are often denied to those who merit them. I will, however, be able to take consolation in the knowledge that I have acted properly, and this will serve as my reward. Those who present such views these days do so only to the sound of censure, even though they have nothing but the good of their society in mind, they are branded villainous, cold and cruel. They are decreed as subverting the common good when their aim is to preserve the purity of their society, its virtue. Our reward is the knowledge that we have done what is right, what is just by our country. _

                Jude looked up from the parchment she held in a white-knuckled grip. "Well?"

                He shrugged and stared at her evenly. "A well-written paper."

                "A very well-written paper. But that's not why…" 

                "I know, Jude." He smiled a little ruefully as he examined a bottle in his hands. "You are alarmed by what was written, not how it was written."

                She nodded, watching him intently. 

                "Well, I can't say you didn't ask for it. _The Benefits of Studying Muggles? Honestly, Jude. I can't imagine you thought he'd laud them for their keen sense of innovation." He observed her intently as she stared blankly at the paper in her grip. "Still, it was a surprise to you somehow."_

                "No, it wasn't. I've listened to him spout his father's views enough times to know what to expect. But this time…this time was different. He put a lot of effort into this piece, and it shows. He'll get full marks for it, of course, but…"

                "But what?" Snape asked thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes discerningly at her.

                "He seemed to mean it this time. Those weren't his father's opinions simply regurgitated. Those were his…"

                "And that alarms you…" he observed with the smallest of smiles.

                "Hell yes it does," she admitted readily and vehemently.

                He laughed a little, but checked his amusement at her stricken look. "He's fourteen, Jude. I would have written the same thing at his age."

                "That's what scares me." It was not meant as an insult and Snape knew better than to take offense. 

                "And your afraid that he'll make the same mistake that I did…that you did?" he asked discerningly. 

                She nodded wearily. 

                "There's time enough, Jude. He can't be changed in a month, trust me."

                "I know." Jude looked up to see the professor regarding her with a curious expression on his face. 

                "There's something else, isn't there?" He was frowning, obviously perturbed that he'd failed to grasp one of the finer points of the exchange. 

                She tapped Malfoy's paper with her fingers. "He quoted a Polish Enlightenment writer…extensively."

                He shrugged simply. "He's a well-read young man, you know that, Jude. Are you going to take points off for plagiarism?" He was smirking incredulously at her, mocking her. 

                "No, I was just surprised." She gave the paper another thoughtful glance. "Krasicki was a Muggle. He was defending his anti-Muggle stance with a Muggle's words." 

                Snape smiled. "So, the silver-lining appears." 

                Jude chuckled reluctantly. "Yeah, but it's pretty damned faint."

                Bending to pick up the papers, she dropped Malfoy's onto the floor with the others. Her hand flew to the bracelet covering her left wrist. Her heart was beating faster. Had she truly felt a twinge of familiar pain or was it paranoia preying on her mind? She definitely had enough reminder lately of who and what she'd been, but more frequently she'd felt a prick of something…a deeply ingrained pain and accompanying fear. 

                Scooping up the papers, she glanced quickly at Professor Snape. He was staring at her with a strange, questioning look on his face. Hugging the papers to her chest, she headed for the door. 

                "I guess I should try to get some sleep before I become as crazy as Moody." She called Darcy away from the blazing fire under a nearby cauldron and turned to leave, bidding the professor good night. Sleep was a far off, intangible dream, however. There would be no rest for her tonight—there was simply too much to occupy her weary mind.

                __


	35. Interview With A Werewolf

Disclaimer: I own only the original characters; Rowling owns everything else. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable conversation is from Rowling's _The Goblet of Fire_.

Author's Note: Just a quick word—my last update seems to have been lost in the shuffle. I had no reviews for it and am assuming that no one has read it. Before you read this one, I suggest chapter 34. Sorry for any confusion this caused. 

Chapter Thirty-Five: Interview With A Werewolf

_'Take me—I don't care, just not right here_

_Take me—Somewhere more familiar_

_Show me—Clever situations_

_Tell me—Things I want to hear'_

_Sister Hazel, Somewhere More Familiar_

                Jude yawned and entered the warmly lit Great Hall already buzzing with students. Morning duty in the Great Hall was always a special torture reserved for Fridays. The only upside Jude saw was Indira already at the head table and smiling kindly back at her. 

Professor Indira Sinistra was an enigma to Jude—a small Middle Eastern woman roughly six or seven years older than her with an unassuming air that was instantly disarming. Although Jude guessed she knew a fair deal about her dark past, (who on the staff did not know?) Jude was surprised when she showed more curiosity toward her than fear or animosity. She felt comfortable around the woman, an odd feeling, almost alien. Jude had never possessed any friends of the same sex before Indira. Adda, the old woman from her former life in Cambridge, had technically filled that role, but it wasn't the same—Adda was the grandmother Jude never had. Indira was different, she mused as the dark featured woman waived to her brightly. 

She smiled back at the woman seated at the head table and held up a finger to indicate she would be at her side shortly. Jude surveyed the few students already eating a hurried breakfast before classes. Stopping in the middle of the long Gryffindor table, she picked up the saltshaker from the scrubbed wooden surface. Unscrewing the lid and then replacing it, precariously perched on top of the shaker, she held a finger to her lips, warning the student onlookers not to say a thing. She put the salt back in its spot and grinned mischievously as she left to join her friend. 

"What was that about?" Indira questioned in an enchanting Saudi accent. 

Jude simply shook her head and laughed. "The first move."

"A joke? On students?" the prim Astronomy teacher gasped. 

"Well," Jude countered guiltily, taking one of the numerous vacant chairs at the table. "I'm using a Muggle technique—no magic—so I could argue that I'm teaching." 

"And you're sure that the unfortunate soul will sit at that exact spot?" she asked skeptically, yet politely as she flipped through numerous star charts. 

"Souls," Jude corrected. "And yes, I'm sure." She nodded as two redheads clambered over the long benches and plopped down right in front of the defective saltshaker. Indira followed her gaze to the Weasleys. They were oblivious to their eminent danger. "They always sit in the same spot," Jude offered picking up the stack of essays and paying as little attention to the Gryffindor table as possible. "Not very smart…you should always move around…makes you less of a target." 

Indira stared at her with wonderment. 

Jude blinked, amused by her companion's reaction. "I've had practice," she explained. 

In one tense moment, Fred had laid hold of the defective shaker and upended it. A howl of mirth from George was the catalyst the rest of the hall needed to erupt into raucous laughter. Fred immediately looked up to the head table where Jude sat, smiling smugly with victory. He shoved a heaping forkful of the salt garnished with a little bit of eggs into his mouth indignantly. Jude's expression melted instantly into disgust. He chewed slowly, grinning through his recovered dignity, pretending to relish the taste. 

"Very good, Mr. Weasley," Jude called to him as the laughter died. "You lose with style, but you lose regardless."

"The battle, maybe," George chimed back, wiping tears from his eyes. 

***

"And that's how electricity is generated." Jude finished the demonstration and glanced up to see numerous and enthusiastic hands thrust into the air. "Cedric," she called to a tall and rather good-looking boy in Hufflepuff yellow and black. 

"Muggles use electricity in place of magic?" he asked, furrowing his brow with curiosity. Jude had been impressed by this young man in particular since the earliest weeks of the term. He showed a zeal and curiosity for the subject that gratified Jude exceedingly, even though she was aware that it probably had little to do with her teaching and more to do with the interesting subject matter.

"Well, they use it in place of other forms of energy. Muggles do not know of magic, or deny its existence, and therefore would have no need to replace it. Generated through any number of means—water, sun, wind, heat—electricity can be used to power various objects that would necessarily require…say physical power…man-power."

There was a general restlessness about the class. People were collecting parchments and quills and shoving them in their bags, Fred and George were in a dangerously hushed conference with each other, so Jude resolved to take decisive action. 

"I know that today is supposed to be a half day and everyone is anxious about tonight, so let's call it quits for now. How does that sound?" 

Not a word of dissent was heard and Jude allowed the class to file out in a rowdier mood than normal. She gathered her things and Darcy jumped to her feet, anticipating the prospect of a romp on the grounds sooner than normal. 

"Jude…er, Miss Elliot?" A timid voice spoke from behind her. 

She turned to face Cedric, nervously shouldering his bag. "Yes, Cedric. You know, I don't mind Jude," she reminded gently, knowing that for some students it would never be acceptable to address her by anything other than a formal title. "What can I do for you? Excellent paper, by the way. I was impressed by the amount of research you did. You are full blood, am I right?" 

"Yeah, I am. I, er, I guess I just got carried away." He shoved his hands timidly into his pockets. He formulated his question for a few moments as Jude looked on curiously. "I think, well, I mean…I'm going to enter the Tournament," he spat out finally with some difficulty.

Jude fought the confused expression that naturally came. She smiled a bit forcefully. "That's great, but why do you say it like that?"

It was Cedric's turn to be confused. "Like what?"

"Like you're not sure."

"Well, I mean, I'll have to compete against wizards from all over…hell, I probably won't even get picked."

"Nonsense!" Jude retorted. "You're very skilled, Mr. Diggory. From the scant month I've taught you, I've noted your potential. You have determination, and that's really what counts." Jude felt a little odd…since when did she become the type to council…the person someone asked for advice?

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I know so." Jude narrowed her eyes, trying to discern the real reason behind his apprehension. 

He kept his reluctant and thoughtful gaze for a while before breaking into a cheerful grin. "Thanks." He headed for the door then turned just outside the classroom. "You're a good teacher, Miss Elliot. Your class is my favorite."

Jude dropped the papers back onto the desk, and watched the boy disappear, surprised by his last statement. Her heart lightened and she smiled at no one in particular. She was starting to love her job. 

"Come on, Darcy." Jude picked up the parchment and shoved them into her bag, leading the dog through the door. "Let's have a run."

***

There was a slight drizzle in the streets. She brushed past the crowds that bustled about the warmly lit stores and cheery pubs. Diagon Alley was a zoo even in the slowest seasons. Unfortunately, this was one of the busiest days…the Thirtieth of October. Halloween was rivaled in popularity only by Christmas. And even the weather had not thwarted the masses from clogging the arteries of the Alley. 

She pushed through a throng of staggering and swearing rough old men and into the thick warm light of the Leaky Cauldron. Dumbledore was most likely going to kill her when he realized she'd skived off the Welcoming Feast. The delegates of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were to arrive just about now, she mused as she walked up to the bar. Dumbledore's wrath seemed like the lesser punishment when compared with seeing Karkaroff face to face for the first time in fourteen years. She knew she had to face the past sometime…but not tonight. 

"Tom!" Jude yelled to the barkeep over the heads of the patrons that packed the pub. He looked up and favored her with a nod and a smile.

"What can I do for yeh, Judy?" 

She winced. Was he ever going to give up the stupid, childish nickname? She highly doubted it—people like Tom never changed. It was an odd comfort and that was exactly what she came for—a place to hide out for a while. Well, that and information.

"Where can I find Remus Lupin?" she yelled over the noise. 

"Aye. Second floor, third door down." Tom winked at her before turning back to his demanding queue of customers. 

Jude simply shook her head with mild disdain at Tom. She knew her brother had been living here since some time this summer, a convenient distance from the headquarters of the _Daily Prophet. His letters had been few and short as he was obviously busy. And she couldn't quite complain about his length and frequency of correspondence—she had not written him at all. This would be her first visit since their meeting at the end of the summer…when she'd received her father's letter, his last words to a daughter he'd never know. _

It hadn't been out of malice that she'd neglected writing to her brother, but it was awkward—she really didn't know what to say to him. Suddenly she had a family and it confused her…she didn't know what to do with it. Yet as she climbed the musty stairs to the rooms above the pub, the anxiety melted away. Even though she'd never been here, and even though her brother was little more than a stranger, this felt familiar. 

She would be surrounded by enemies the moment she returned to Hogwarts—Moody was already making things bad and Karkaroff would escalate the situation to unbearable. As she knocked on the plank door, she hoped he was in—with all the hate and mistrust that awaited her tomorrow, she really hoped she could find a friend to talk to tonight. 

Footsteps sounded behind the door before it opened a crack, then all the way revealing the former professor, still tired in appearance, but less sorrowful. 

"Jude," he greeted her warmly, yet there was a hint of surprise in his voice. It was obvious that she was the last person he expected to see. Still, he grabbed her hand and led her into the small, dimly lit room. 

She looked around, noting the Spartan and very orderly appearance of the small space. A desk shoved away in one corner was littered with newspapers, notes, parchments and quills, photographs and books. It was the only untidy area in the entire room. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't think you would be here…I didn't know you were busy. I can come back," she stammered nervously, retreating to the doorway. 

"No! I'm glad you're here," he said quickly, smiling sincerely and offering her a seat. "I was beginning to think you were still angry with me…you haven't answered any of my letters."

She shuffled her feet and stared at the floor guiltily. "I was busy and…"

He laughed. "I know. You don't have to explain. It will take a little getting used to, I guess, for both of us." He was relieved to see her nod and sit. 

He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat facing her. "So, to what do I owe this pleasure?" 

She shrugged. "I don't know. Would I sound ridiculous if I said I just wanted to get away for a little while?" 

He shook his head. "Not at all. Do you mind if I ask why, though? It's not the job, is it?" 

"No," she replied quickly. "I love teaching. It's just that tonight…the delegates from the other schools were supposed to arrive tonight."

"Ah. I see." He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "Karkaroff?"

She nodded. 

"I don't suppose you want to talk about it, then?"

"Well, that depends," she cocked her head to the side and eyed him suspiciously. "To whom will I be speaking? My brother or a reporter?" 

He laughed. She liked his laugh. It was friendly and comforting, almost like Rhys' if not for the hint of underlying sadness that permeated this man's voice. "Off the record," he consented, "although you could be a very valuable source."

"There's really not much to tell. You already know that I was a Death Eater. I was a spy for Voldemort. I informed on those who dared to double-cross him. And I was good at what I did." 

He blinked, clearly astonished by what she'd revealed. "That's a pretty rough task."

"Yeah, and now it seems as if a reunion of everyone who has a reason to hate me is taking place. All that's lacking is Voldemort and a couple of others and it could be a real party." Jude sighed and shook her head morosely. "I don't have a good feeling about this Tournament."

Remus continued to stare discerningly at her. "What is it?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "It's just…well, a combination of things, really. There was a prediction made by Trelawney…"

He strode over to his desk and grabbed a piece of parchment. "Yes, Sirius said something of that in his last letter."

"He's been writing you? Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

"As long as his alias holds out, no," he said frankly, looking over the letter in his hand. 

"And then Moody showing up—Dumbledore felt it necessary to have an Auror there for some reason—doesn't exactly bode well." She frowned and impatiently, distractedly, pushed the hair from her face. "That Auror in particular to boot," she added under her breath. She didn't notice that he looked up as she said this—it was a quick motion, swiftly gone.

He smirked, reading over some line of the missive from his exiled friend. "He says something of that too. Seems he wasn't too pleased with the things you had to say about his mentor."

Jude smirked. She'd talked to Sirius after the Sorting Ceremony where she learned that Karkaroff would be present at the school come Halloween. She wanted to warn him, and in the process had said some scathing things about the crazed Auror Dumbledore had appointed in Remus' stead. "Well, what can I say? The truth hurts. That guy's a batty wanker, afraid of his own shadow…and watching me like a hawk." 

He nodded judiciously. "Did he threaten you?"

Jude furrowed her brow in deep thought. "No. Not really, he just said he'd be keeping an eye on me…like he was expecting something, too. And that I would somehow be involved. I don't know…I'm just paranoid, I guess."

A skeptical glare was his answer. "Maybe there's something to it, though. You seem to know more than the average observer. If you think something's up, then I think there's a good chance you might be right. Plus there's the missing Ministry worker."

She took a heavy breath. "That's another reason why I came here. Bertha Jorkins…she was in your year at Hogwarts. I've never heard of her before and can't see why she would be of any importance to…well, I was hoping you could shed some light."

Jude watched the man sitting across from her. He had a deep and far off look on his face that was neither here nor there—just blank. "Are you okay?" she asked finally, jerking his thoughts back to the present. 

"Oh, yes. I…I don't remember much about her, just that she was in Hufflepuff, she was nice but was as nosy as they come. Not too bright," he added tactfully. "Had a bit of a crush on James, if I remember correctly…maybe it was Sirius." Jude tried to hide the pang of guilt she felt upon the mention of his name. He must be tortured with memories of his friend's death as well. Tomorrow would be Halloween and thirteen years will have passed since that night...

"But I can't see how she would have been a target, either. Unless…" He trailed off, staring at Siruis' letter.

She sat up straight, intrigued. "Unless what?"

"Well," he said as he stood and retrieved a paper lying on his desk. "The article said that she was on vacation when she disappeared in Albania."

Jude nodded. "It was rumored to be the spot where Voldemort was last spotted."

"So, maybe she just…stumbled onto something. I mean, she's dumb enough…I wouldn't rule it out." 

Sitting still for a moment, her hand tugging at the bracelet on her left wrist, she allowed her mind to wander through the possibilities. "Remus, do you think she would have known about the Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year?"

He shrugged. "It's possible."

She stood quickly. "So, if she was in possession of such information, someone could have forced her to spill." She looked up from her pacing and saw Remus staring speechlessly at her. "I know, it's pretty flimsy, but he's planning something…I don't know how I know, I just do."

Nodding, he frowned. "This would definitely be the perfect opportunity." 

"Bugger! And I'm here!" Jude strode toward the door and pulled it open in one quick movement. "I've got to get back." She forced herself to slow down and turn to the man staring with mild foreboding. "Thanks for everything, Remus. I owe you one."

"An interview?" he asked hopefully.

She favored him with a skeptical glare. "I thought you newspaper types wanted credible sources?"

"And you're not?"

"Depends on whom you ask," she said with a wry smile. "I have to go. Thanks again."

"Any time," he called after her as her footfalls sounded on the stairs. He walked out into the narrow hallway. "Jude," he said as she turned at the landing, staring up at him curiously. "Be careful."

She simply laughed and shook her head, continuing on her way. If he only knew the trouble she'd gotten in and out of, he would understand how silly his words of caution were. 

***

It was late when she pried the doors of the school open, trying to create as little noise as possible. The halls were silent and dark.

"Where have you been?" A cold voice greeted her as she slid through the doors. She jumped.

"Jesus! Don't do that sneaky, lurking in the shadows thing," she admonished. Professor Snape was leaning against the cold stone wall just inside the darkened doorway, glaring at her with bored suspicion. 

"Awfully jumpy, aren't we?" he asked accusingly. 

"Well, I have much to be jumpy about, don't I?" She leveled a withering glare at the professor. "You can't blame me for being nervous with Moody about, can you?" 

"He has nothing on you," he assured her dispassionately. "That is, until you give him reason to hound you. Like sneaking off without telling anyone when you know perfectly well that you had an obligation to fulfill."

Jude rolled her eyes and made a hassled sound. "I had to talk to Remus." 

"And it couldn't have waited until tomorrow?" He crossed his arms and stared at her, unblinking. She felt thirteen again, as if she were trying to explain away some mishap, knowing she would not escape a reprimand. 

"No, it couldn't. And, frankly, I just didn't want to be here. Surely Dumbledore won't mind that I put off the inevitable for another twenty-four hours." She brushed past him, and headed for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, she had only one thought. She and Darcy would be prowling the halls tonight starting as soon as she could get to her room. She didn't really have the time or effort to explain things right now. She didn't feel like having the professor laugh at her thin accusations just yet.

"You have an obligation as a teacher, Jude, to uphold the honor of this school. And that does not mean skiving off welcoming guests." 

She ignored him and continued up the stairs.

***

It was early in the morning; Jude could tell by the rosy fingers of dawn that made the shadows in the halls less pronounced, more fuzzy and faded. Darcy had kept her valuable company on her rounds about the school. Everyone was asleep, or at least avoiding the halls. She'd only seen Filch and Mrs. Norris once and had only stopped long enough to receive malicious stares and contemptuous mutterings. 

She was tired, yet satisfied with her work. Nothing would be more gratifying than to be wrong about her intuition—she certainly didn't want anything to happen yet she had to be cautious. The corridors were silent and no evil reared its ugly head. However, the dull ache behind the cold silver of the band around her wrist warned her that all would not remain quiet for long. 

For a few weeks, maybe longer—she wasn't sure when she'd started paying attention or trying to excuse the nuisance throbbing—the mark on her arm burned slightly. She'd only known this to happen for one reason alone—Voldemort was calling to his followers. He was announcing his presence. 

Earlier that night, it had occurred to her to tell Remus about it, but it just seemed too odd. It wasn't as if they were instantly the best of friends and she feared damaging the already precarious link between them. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him off and this was just the thing to do it. No, this would remain a secret a little longer. 

Musing as she walked a little further past the third floor corridor she'd guarded so jealously only three years prior, she wondered if Professor Snape had noticed anything. Was her Master calling to his entire flock…or just her? Did he actually harbor any doubt as to her loyalty? Was he expecting her to come crawling back?

Checking the hallway to make sure she was alone, she removed the bracelet from her wrist and watched as the silver glinted coldly, cruelly in the dim light. The dark mark was forever burned on her arm, black and inescapable unlike those of the rest of Voldemort's legions. Others needed secrecy; discretion had never been an issue for her. She'd been set aside, marked as different by the Dark Lord himself.

Icy fingers wrapped around her wrist. After arriving in a cold, dark stone room, both men had removed their shrouding hoods. The man who gripped her arm fiercely was the man with the fiery eyes, the man that promised to reveal secrets to her if she followed him. Now she saw he had raven hair and looked younger than she'd previously thought—older than the blond man at his side, but still young. He had assured her that this was necessary, essential in her quest for those secrets. For him to tell, she had to sell—her loyalty, her soul for the truth, the answers to her questions. It seemed trivial as she'd consented, but now, facing down a glowing red brand, she was no longer sure. 

_She could not struggle—her body simply denied her that response. Motionless, silent with fear so overwhelming she felt she could no longer breath, she watched as the man with the red eyes nodded to the man with the corn silk hued hair and cold gunmetal gray eyes. He held the hot iron. _

_His servant obeyed with a hint of pleasure, not above getting his hands dirty if the situation called for it. She assumed it was payback for making him look the fool in front of his Master. The icy iron grip on her wrist seemed to drain all capacity to fight from her, she couldn't even cry out as the angry red metal seared her new Master's brand on her arm. _

_"This is a great honor." She heard his voice as if from a great distance off, but every word was clear. "From this day on, you are created anew. You have no past. Only a future. That future will be shaped by my will. You are mine. I am your Master…your Creator…your Lord. From this day forward, you will serve Me in all you do."_

_"I will serve You in all I do, Lord Voldemort. You are my Master and my Creator." She heard herself speak, but it was not herself. It was her voice but not her will. Another dictated her actions as a puppeteer guided the motions of the innate puppet. It would soon become natural to be guided, controlled in such a manner. _

_He smiled. It was an unfeeling, unmerciful expression that made him appear ethereal, otherworldly, completely inhuman. However, Jude did not flinch at the cold yet fiery stare, but stood transfixed by this hauntingly beautiful and terrifying being. He released his hold on her and at once the pain overwhelmed her. She was unconscious before she felt her face impact the hard stone of the floor._

Jude shook herself from the memory she'd spent so much concentrated effort in forgetting. The dull ache she felt almost constantly now was only a fraction of the pain she'd felt in that moment—a pain more than just physical. It was more than bearable now, but she knew that it would become stronger and as her Master grew in strength of will, it would become overwhelming. When He finally did call, she hoped she could resist, she hoped her will would be stronger. 

She replaced the silver band on her wrist with a bit of difficulty due to her icy and shaking hands and spun around to leave that corridor. As she turned, she smacked into a very solid, very large obstacle. A person, she realized a bit too late to avoid notice. In her carelessness, she'd run directly into the last person she wanted to see. It was Igor Karakaroff. 

"Pardon me," he said in the thick, familiar Russian accent. Jude frowned at the words; it was clear from his face that he had recognized her, but his words were forcibly polite and unaffected. He was trying to hide that he was startled to see her there. But why? What purpose did it serve?

With a slight bow, he retreated down the hallway, casting wary glances over his shoulder at her. She watched, unblinking until he was out of sight. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, she forced herself to move from the spot where she'd been transfixed. 

"Well, Darcy. I suspect he's up to something." The dog licked her frigid fingers, bringing her out of her thoughts of dangerous conspiracies and intrigue.   
                "You're right, we better go." She headed off in the opposite direction Karkaroff had disappeared in, heading for her room, Darcy trotting cheerfully at her heals.

***

"Miss Elliot." Dumbledore's voice was bright and cheerful. "Am I to have the pleasure of your company tonight, or shall you be disappearing soon?"

Jude bit her lip nervously. "Sorry about that, Professor. But I just couldn't…I didn't want to…" she stammered and then sighed heavily. "I'm a coward, what can I say?"

"Nonsense, my dear," he beamed, placing a light hand on her shoulder in kind reassurance. "No harm done. But you will have to face him some time. Or are we to prepare for your frequent absences?"

Jude smiled. "No, Professor. That will not be necessary. In fact, I have already had a bit of a run-in with the usual suspect—quite literally, actually. But the strange thing is…he pretended as if he didn't recognize me. It was clear he did, but he acted in the complete opposite."

The Headmaster favored her with a comically wise expression. "Ah, then you see. It may be just as awkward for him as it is for you. You weren't the best of friends in the past, I may assume?"

"Certainly not, Headmaster. But I know him—he doesn't do anything unless there is something in it for him. He's a profiteering bastard."

He chuckled softly. "And is it not possible that Igor has turned over a new leaf?"

Jude thought for a moment. "Perhaps, but when he found no rubles under that leaf, I'm sure he stopped turning them over."

"Don't worry, my dear," Dumbledore laughed. "I have plenty of eyes watching him. You need not be concerned with him." 

"Moody?" Jude bit off sarcastically.

"You have little confidence in him as well?" the Headmaster asked, amused at her reaction.

"No, I have confidence that he means to thwart any evil plan. But I don't like him, that's all." Jude finished unceremoniously. 

"I know your history with the man, Jude. I would not have invited him to take the position if I did not think it was necessary." 

Jude looked away, debating whether she should tell him everything. She decided not to, glancing back up at the Headmaster. He was staring at her with a look of shrewd discernment. He would find out all in time, she mused. It was his way.

"I look forward to seeing you tonight, my dear." He held the door of his office open for her. "The naming of the Champions will be most exciting."

She smiled, his enthusiasm almost eliciting something other than apprehension about this tournament. Almost. 

"Certainly, Headmaster," she answered, trying to make her voice seem light and carefree. It failed miserably. She walked out of the office and headed down the corridor, her anxiety growing with every step.

***

The Great Hall was decorated with more splendor this year than in previous years Jude could remember. The jack-o-lanterns seemed to glow more brightly, warmly and the air was more festive. She smiled. Flitwick must have put extraordinary effort into decorating this year on account of the guests. 

Jude approached the head table and immediately saw a glitch in her plans—Karkaroff had placed himself next to Professor Snape and he was whispering to him furiously as she entered. And if that were not bad enough, Ludo Bagman sat just beyond them, glaring pointedly at her. Mr. Crouch, another person Jude would not count as a fan of hers, sat next to Dumbledore. Jude had planned to tell Snape everything she and Remus had discussed the night before, but now it would have to wait. 

She smiled half-heartedly at the professor and took a seat at the far end by Hagrid. Students from all schools had been streaming in for the last twenty minutes and the tables were packed with excited faces. The goblet, in which the names of hopefuls were placed, glowed and bubbled as every eye was turned expectantly on it. There was a palpable feeling of anticipation, and for Jude it was agonizing anxiety. If anything were to happen, it would start here. 

The feast moved along quickly, spurred on by the eagerness of everyone present to know the names of the champions. Jude passed the time avoiding Moody's suspicious glares and listening to Hagrid flirt with Madame Maxime, the Beauxbatons Headmistress. But before she was prepared, Dumbledore announced that the selection of the Champions for the Tri-Wizard Tournament would begin.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore, rising to his feet and commanding the attention of the entire room. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the Champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber." He indicated a door off to the right, behind the staff table. "There they will be receiving their first instructions."

Dumbledore waved his wand with an elegant flourish, extinguishing all of the candles except those illuminating the faces of the floating pumpkins, plunging the hall into a state of twilight. The Goblet of Fire now had no rival in luminance. Its bluish-white flames sparkled and danced in the semidarkness. It capitulated between icy blue and flaming red before a tongue of fire produced a charred piece of parchment. 

"The Champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore announced in a clear voice above the din of excited whispers, "will be Viktor Krum."

A tall, hulking boy slouched up to the staff table, following the instructions with a proud servility. As he passed her, Jude noted the look of deep suspicion and malice he gave her. She frowned in thought, not a doubt left in her mind that Karkaroff was all too aware of her presence. He'd even warned his students. Karkaroff boomed his adulations from the other end of the table as Krum disappeared into the other chamber. 

"The Champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore shouted easily over the cheers for Krum, "will be Fleur Delacour." 

A beautiful blond girl glided to the front of the hall and into the chamber the large, scowling boy had disappeared into.

The goblet turned an angry red then cool blue again before it expelled the next name—the name of Hogwarts' very own Champion. 

"The Hogwarts Champion," the Headmaster read, "is Cedric Diggory." 

Everyone at the Hufflepuff table was on their feet, cheering wildly as the boy made his way shyly to the front of the hall. The rest of the students were applauding, but their enthusiasm was nothing compared to that of his house. 

Cedric approached the table looking shocked at his fortune. He smiled finally as he saw Jude beaming back at him.

"I knew you had it in you, Cedric." She smiled brightly, noting that he still seemed somewhat skeptical. 

"Thanks, Miss Elliot," he replied modestly, following the other Champions into the chamber beyond the staff table. 

Seeing all of the Champions safe in the room and no sign of concern, Jude relaxed a little. 

"Excellent!" Dumbledore said cheerfully as the ruckus died down minimally. "Well, we now have our three Champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your Champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your Champion on, you will contribute in a very real—,"

Jude looked up at the Headmaster. He'd stopped mid-sentence and was staring at the goblet. The fire in the cup had just turned red again. Sparks were flying and another long tongue of flame shot out. There was another piece of parchment. 

Watching with confusion, Jude held her breath as Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and automatically read its script. He stared for a long time at the words, stretching a tense moment to its limits. 

He cleared his throat and announced tensely the name written on the charred paper. 

"_Harry Potter_."

Jude swore quietly, her eyes flicking immediately to the boy surrounded by his friends at the Gryffindor table. He wore a blank look of confusion and profound shock. Jude noticed that Ron and Hermione wore identical expressions. 

Her instincts told her that the person responsible for this disastrous turn of events sat not at that table, but at the staff table with herself. She glanced over at Karkaroff and Bagman. Both were glaring pointedly back at her. Bagman's expression was ecstatic as his eyes darted from her then settled on Harry. Karkaroff, however, held her glare with cold contempt. 

Moody, Jude noted, was muttering like an insane asylum inmate, capitulating between the three of them. His eyes were fixed on Harry, however, as soon as Dumbledore spoke.

"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore called to the thunderstruck boy. "Harry! Up here, if you please!"

Harry got to his feet and made his way down the room between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. The room was tensely silent. 

"There's been some mistake. There has to have been some mistake," Jude whispered to herself, reasoning away the cold and terrifying feeling she got as the boy she promised to protect walked toward the staff table. He looked as helpless and clueless as a lamb being called to face a pack of wolves. Only these wolves were smiling encouragement as he walked past them—all except Karkaroff who appeared to be sincerely put-off by this new twist in the plot. 

Jude didn't know why, but she placed Moody alongside Bagman and Karkaroff in the lineup of suspects. Although he congratulated Harry on this fortunate turn as he walked past, Jude did not get a good feeling from the hard glint in his eye. She'd seen it before—the malicious intent was well veiled, but it could never escape her detection. 

"What are you thinking, Jude?" she chastised herself mentally. "Dumbledore trusts him. This has nothing to do with you. He's looking out for Harry, not trying to hurt him." She forced the anxiousness Moody conjured in her to settle. 

"Well…through the door, Harry," said Dumbledore, the smile having long since vanished. Harry obeyed, the bewildered expression never leaving his face.

Jude watched as he entered the room, Ludo jumping up to follow him. Dumbledore whispered some hushed words to Professor McGonagall then to Mr. Crouch. He then nodded to Professor Snape, who rose and followed the Headmaster and Crouch to the room. McGonagall motioned for her to come as well and they fell in behind the Headmaster. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime had also joined the group in the room. 

Jude remained in the doorway, listening to the words spoken. Bagman's voice was ringing with enthusiasm and a bit of nervousness. 

"The age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet…I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It's down in the rules, you're obliged…Harry will just have to do the best he—,"

Jude felt a cold chill run over her. Why was Bagman so adamant about Harry competing? The answer was evident, but she didn't like what it pointed to. 

McGonagall shut the door behind her and moved to stand at the Headmaster's side. Jude remained tucked away in an obscure corner, watching everyone, marking every gesture.

Karkaroff and Maxime were both enraged over the injustice of Hogwarts having two Champions. Maxime, Jude was certain, was sincere in her anger. Karkaroff, however, posed a doubt. He was probably a good actor when he had something to gain. And his theatrical skills were definitely at their height as he bustled about, declaring that they resubmit the names and fussing over his Champion. 

"It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff," Snape said quietly, but Jude heard him from the other side of the room. His eyes were fixed on Harry, glittering with pointed dislike. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here—," 

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly, and Snape fell silent. His eyes still rested on Harry maliciously. Dumbledore looked at Harry evenly, discerningly through his half-moon spectacles. 

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked with an eerie calm.

"No," said Harry, standing next to Cedric. Everyone was watching him, Jude included, and he seemed to be aware of this. He fidgeted nervously, glancing over at her corner. Knowing how pale and anxious she must look, she attempted to seem a little more cheerful for Harry and Cedric's sake. They shouldn't have to know the terrifying things that were materializing for her. She tried to smile encouragingly, just to let Harry know someone believed his story. Snape made an impatient and derisive noise, effectively pulling Harry's attention away. 

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" asked Dumbledore, ignoring Snape's taunts. 

"No," Harry protested adamantly. 

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" cried Madame Maxime. 

"He could not have crossed the Age Line," Professor McGonagall broke in. "I am sure we are all agreed on that—," 

"Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line," Madame Maxime concluded with an elegant shrug. 

"It is possible, of course," said Dumbledore with a hint of amusement.

"Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!" Professor McGonagall spat angrily. "Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that the did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!"

Jude was amused slightly to see the enraged Deputy Headmistress turn an angry and reprimanding glare on Professor Snape. 

"Mr. Crouch…Mr. Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice fawning and patronizing, "you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face anxiously and Crouch remained statuesque, not moving and standing just outside the firelight. She wondered what he was thinking.

Finally, Crouch spoke in a curt and officious tone. "We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front, " said Bagman, excitedly beaming and speaking in a high-pitched tone. He turned back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime with a look of finality as if the case were now closed. 

Karkaroff continued to bluster on a bit about resubmitting names. Jude was increasingly skeptical of his behavior. If his indignation was a cover, the rest seemed to buy it, even Dumbledore and Snape. 

"I have half a mind to leave," Karkaroff bellowed in his thick Russian accent. 

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a distinct voice just to her left. Moody had just entered the room. "You can't leave your Champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

"Convenient?" Karkaroff asked, startled. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody." It was a weak cover. 

"Don't you?" Moody hissed quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out." 

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" Madame Maxime added.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff obligingly, bowing to her regally. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic _and_ the International Confederation of Wizards—,"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," growled Moody. "But funny thing…I don't hear _him_ saying a word…"

Jude had to admit that she agreed wholeheartedly with what Moody was saying. They could have been allies against whoever intended to put Harry on the chopping block if either of them were willing to put the past away. But as he stepped further into the room, he glared at her—an expression that left her in no doubt that he accused her just as much as Karkaroff…maybe more—leaving no hope of such an alliance.

"Why should 'e complain?" the beautiful blond girl, the Beauxbatons Champion, burst out, stamping her foot in anger. "'E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money—zis is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Potter _is _going to die for it," Moody said with a low growl. The words chilled Jude. It was just what she thought, only hearing it spoken aloud made it seem real…almost inevitable. 

"Moody, old man…what a thing to say!" It was Ludo, who'd risen to his feet and was trying to restore the jovial mood to the room. Jude narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him as he pleaded with Moody.

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff a little too loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" Moody growled. Jude felt him tense next to her, becoming rigid at Karkaroff's words. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet…" He turned a piercing glare at everyone in the room, finally coming to rest on Jude. She held it evenly, aware that everyone else in the room was no doubt staring at her as well. 

"Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?" Maxime chimed in, throwing her hands in the air. 

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" Moody yelled. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament…I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…"

"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody." As Karkaroff spoke the words, Jude turned to look at the aged and slightly unhinged Auror next to her. He winced a little as Karkaroff threw the accusations back at him. Jude would have believed a gibbering idiot before she believed a word Karkaroff spoke…but she had to admit, Moody seemed to have given this an awful lot of thought. But then again this was Moody—he saw conspiracies everywhere.

"There are those who will turn innocent occasions to their advantage," Moody retorted, having regained his calm. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember…"

The statement hung in the air, ringing like a struck bell. 

"Alastor!" Dumbledore reigned him in, leveling a warning glance in his direction. "How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking pointedly to everyone in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…"

Jude glanced over at the two boys. They both looked frightened and confused. This could get bad and Jude felt hot anger rise in her chest at the thought of someone willingly placing two innocent children in such danger. 

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr—," Madame Maxime began again. 

Dumbledore intercepted the argument expertly. "My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

That signaled the end of the discussion. 

"Well, shall we crack on then?" Ludo Bagman said, rubbing his hands together like an expectant child. "Got to give our Champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

He seemed to snap out of the deepest of reveries, almost trance-like. Jude watched cautiously. "Yes," he said blankly, "Instructions. Yes, the first task…

"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told the four Champions, all paying close attention to his words, as if their lives depended on it. Jude mused darkly that at least one life did count on it. "So we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…very important…

"The first task will take place on November the Twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

"The Champions are not permitted to accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The Champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the Champions are exempted from end-of-year tests." 

Jude almost laughed as Cedric looked over to her, a look of pure scandal flitted across his face. She wondered bemusedly why the boy wasn't in Ravenclaw—he was obviously not happy about missing out on tests in his last year of school.

Mr. Crouch turned to Dumbledore with a rigid and officious posture that haunted Jude, pricking at a memory. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," Dumbledore affirmed, favoring Crouch with a look of mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore. I must get back to the Ministry," he said wearily. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment…I've left young Weatherby in charge…Very enthusiastic…a little overenthusiastic, if the truth be told…"

He staved off further invitations from Dumbledore and persuasions from Bagman. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff led their students out of the room with an oddly paternal air. Moody trailed out after them, followed by Crouch, Bagman hounding him the entire way out to stay and have some fun for a change.

"Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," Dumbledore ordered kindly, smiling at both of them. "I am sure Gryffinddor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise." 

Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded and they left together. 

Dumbledore turned abruptly to Jude, startling her with the look of urgency on his face. 

"Miss Elliot, earlier today there were a few things you chose to leave out of our conference. I suggest you tell us now." 

Jude looked around at the remaining persons. Professor McGonagall was looking at her with confusion wrinkling her stern face. Professor Snape seemed to grasp more of the situation than McGonagall, but was still interested to hear what she had to say. Dumbledore was waiting for her to speak, his fingers laced together, his expression tense yet unreadable.

Jude swallowed hard. "Last night I went to talk with my brother, Remus." Dumbledore nodded, a bit put off guard by this revelation—she'd not told anyone this bit of information save Professor Snape. 

"I had my suspicions on that point," Dumbledore confirmed. McGonagall looked lost.

"Well, I thought he could answer some questions for me…like who was Bertha Jorkins, the Ministry worker who disappeared in Albania. He told me she was not too bright and very nosy…and well, we both agreed that if she fell into the wrong hands, Voldemort could very well have known about the Tri-Wizard Tournament farther in advance than the rest of us…it would have given him time to plan something. And with Karkaroff here, that seemed to confirm my suspicion."

"Karkaroff is not the culprit, Jude," Snape protested without much enthusiasm. 

She frowned and looked over to the fire where he stood. "How do you know?"

"Because this is beyond him," he stated simply.

"Nothing is beyond him if it pays enough," Jude retorted. "Voldemort would be willing to give much to the person who could deliver Harry to him."

Snape laughed cruelly. "It isn't always about Potter, you know."

"No, just most of the time," Jude said, surprised at the lengths he was going to in order to deny this.

"I know about Karkaroff's dealings just as much as you do, Jude. I know he's running scared from every group he could possibly have gotten on the wrong side of. And if given the chance, he'd sell his own mother to get back in Voldemort's good graces. But I've talked to him lately…he's terrified, Jude. And you know why."

She nodded. So it wasn't just her…she had to admit that she was relieved. It just seemed less overwhelming when she wasn't alone. 

"Why?" Professor McGonagall broke the tense silence. "Why won't anyone just come out and say what's going on?"

Jude took a deep breath and turned to face Dumbledore fully. She held up her left wrist and hesitated before she spoke. "I think He's calling."

***

Jude hurried out of the school, down the steps and out into the Halloween chill. It would be November first tomorrow…only twenty-three days until the first task. She had to talk to Sirius and tell him face to face what had happened…what she'd allowed happen. 

"You're in an awful hurry, lass." She froze. There wasn't time for this shit, she thought as she turned to the malicious voice. Moody was standing a few paces behind her. 

"Where are you off to?" he asked, tapping his grotesque wooden foot impatiently. 

"None of your business," she replied, turning around to continue on her way into Hogsmeade, all the while amending her plan in her head. She could no longer see Sirius personally—what would happen if Moody followed her there? She couldn't even risk writing him a letter informing him that Harry was in danger. She was the first suspect where he was concerned—all that protesting she'd done at the end of last term had only cast more suspicion on her and had not helped Black in the least. 

"Aye, but it is my business, lassie. I'd grow eyes in the back of my head if I were you. I'll be watching you even closer…you and your friend Karkaroff. I know everything."

"It's Halloween, Moody. Don't you have something better to do than bark up the wrong tree…like scare little children or something?"

He growled malignantly at her as she turned her back to him and continued on her way. 

"Loyalties will be laid out clearly in time, lassie. I'd make sure I was on the right side when that happens…although I'm not sure you'll be forgiven."

She shook her head. He was absolutely bonkers, rambling on about something that made sense to himself alone. With no clue how to respond to his gibbering, she simply said nothing at all.

She had only one other recourse. If she told Remus what was going on, he could get a letter to Sirius with less risk. She would have to tell him everything, but it was absolutely necessary in light of recent events.


	36. Crushing Burdens

Disclaimer: I own nothing—not even a copy of Rowling's books! They're all my sister's! Rowling owns everything. No copyright infringements were intended and no money is being made from the writing of this story. 

Author's Note: Nothing much, really. The First Task now, hope you're enjoying…that is if anyone is reading this story to begin with!

Chapter Thirty-Six: Crushing Burdens

_"Then there is no hope for us, is there?"_

_"No hope."_

_"No hope at all, is there?"_

_"No hope at all," Major Danby conceded. He looked up after a while with a half-formed notion._

_"Wouldn't it be nice if they could disappear us the way they disappeared the others and relieve us of all these crushing burdens?"_

Joseph Heller, Catch-22 

                _Potter Stinks!_

                The flashing words had been grating on her nerves for a while. Now it was simply becoming intolerable. She still had ten more minutes to contend with the distraction, but with everything that was going on, she didn't know if she could make it. 

                Draco Malfoy had been more of a test of her will today than he had before. Reminding herself not to take out her frustrations over the latest developments in the Tri-Wizard Tournament on her students, she took a few deep breaths and dismissed class. 

                "Mr. Malfoy, a word please." She looked over at the boy and saw a brief triumphant expression cross his face. 

                "Yes, _Professor?" he asked smoothly, emphasizing the title she'd implored her students not to use. _

                She waited for the milling students to disappear through the door before she continued. It was clear Malfoy loved an audience. 

                Smiling in what she hoped was a kind manner, she began with what she deemed safe territory. "A few good arguments you presented in class today, Mr. Malfoy."

                He nodded, a curious expression on his face. He was trying to discern her angle. 

                "But I will have to ask you to address your fellow classmates with respect, whether you agree with them or not…whether you _like _them or not."

                He smirked, leaning against a desk and shoving his hands casually into his pockets. 

                "I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using the term Mudblood in this class." 

                "But he is one, Professor," he countered coolly. 

                "What Ernie is or isn't has no place in this class' discussions. Everyone, full blood or otherwise, brings valuable insight to this forum. Everyone is on an equal footing here, Mr. Malfoy. I don't care if you subscribe to those views, but I do care if you disrespect your classmates. Exercise a little respect, Mr. Malfoy." 

                "Is that all?" he asked lazily.

                "No," she said, driven a little over the edge by his mocking tone. "Don't wear that silly button to my class again. The tournament will remain outside these doors. I don't care who you support and who you ridicule, just don't do it here. It's distracting."

                He frowned at her disapprovingly. "I can do whatever I want to! There are no rules that say I can't wear this to class." He pointed to the blinking _Potter Stinks! button._

                She favored him with a long and thoughtful glare. "Why do it anyway?" she asked after a pause.

                He furrowed his brow, confused at the question. "Do what?" 

                "Why don't you just cut Harry some slack?"

                He laughed. "Because people have cut him slack all his life. And it's my solemn duty as his rival to harass him as much as possible." 

                "Doesn't it make you seem…well, a little obsessed?"

                He made a slight choking noise. "Obsessed? With Potter?" He looked revolted.

                "Well? What's in it for you? Why waste so much time on someone you despise? You don't see him making such a fuss about you, do you?"

                "Entertainment, Elliot. It's amusing to kick the kid around. He's a prat and he deserves it."

                Jude looked discerningly at the boy. "He didn't put his name in that goblet, I'm almost certain of that."

                He smirked cruelly. "I never said he did. He's not clever enough to have gotten past Dumbledore's age line." 

                Jude started and took a menacing step toward the blond boy. "What do you know about it, Malfoy?" 

                Draco looked at her evenly. "Nothing," he said blandly, not caring if she believed him or not. 

                "I doubt that," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Let me ask you again. Why are you taking this class?" 

                Springing off of the desk, he stood motionless, yet just as fiercely set in his determination as she. "I told you." 

                "Your father put you up to it, I know. But why? Are you simply educating yourself on Muggles or are you here to keep an eye on me?" 

                His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "What would you do if I said the latter was true?" 

                Jude deliberated on this for a moment. "I would tell you that you are playing a dangerous game, Mr. Malfoy." She held his stare evenly, harshly. 

                He maintained a stoic silence.

                "The First Task is in three days. I will be watching. We'll see how decent a player you are. I doubt you'll be much of a challenge."

                "Is that all?" he said, a dangerous tenseness to his voice.

                "No," she answered icily. "Your essay, Mr. Malfoy." She handed him back the work he did on the benefits of studying Muggles. He took the paper from her mechanically and glanced at it. 

                "It says…"

                "Yes. Full Marks. It was a very good paper. But next time, it would greatly enhance your argument if you didn't use Muggle literature to back up your anti-Muggle stance." She smiled slyly, yet not with cruelty. This boy was a challenge, and she loved a good challenge.

                "Thank you, Miss Elliot," he said smoothly and smiled with amusement as he strode over to the door. He favored her with one more hard, appraising glare and was gone. 

***

                Pulling on her running shoes and tugging a sweater over her head, she called to Darcy and pulled open her door. She could barely stand the tension any longer. A good, long run was what she needed to release some of the anxiety. 

                Out in the cold of late November, everything seemed sharper. The fading sunlight gave everything a hard, dark outline. The air was crisp and sounds were clearer. The cold was biting and stung as her breathing became faster. Running the familiar paths through the forest, she willed herself not to think on anything but what was around her—the gilded, gothic masonry of the frosted trees arching overhead, the stained-glass colors of the bright leaves that still held on to the last vestiges of autumn, to the choir sounds of the wind in the branches. 

                Blocking everything that had been bothering her, she was oblivious to time and space. It was growing dark, still that did not bother her. She'd been out here in the forest at night plenty of times and there was little in this world that truly frightened her. If she'd taken the time to note her surroundings, she wouldn't have been surprised to note that she had no clue where she was, but there was hardly a spot in the forest that was unknown to her. Eventually, she would understand where she was. This was hers…this forest…it belonged to her…and she alone knew its secrets. 

                Suddenly, she pulled herself to a stop, Darcy freezing along side her. She was facing a large paddock with several, menacing, fire-breathing…

                "Dragons?" she mused aloud, staring down the snout of a greenish monster that was blinking with a mild curiosity. Those weren't here before.

                "Hey! You! Get away from there!" 

                She felt someone grab her by the wrist and haul her away a good hundred feet from the mysterious paddock. 

                "What on earth do you think you're doing out here? You could have been burnt to a crisp!"

                Jude didn't turn to look at the person who held her by the wrist in a vice grip, but continued to glare at the trespassing dragons. "What am I doing here? What are _those doing here? Who the hell put dragons in _my _forest!"_

                "_Your forest?" the voice said incredulously. "And who might _you _be?"_

                "Jude Elliot, a teacher here," she answered before pulling her attention away from the offending beasts and looking at the person still gripping her arm. It was a man with a boyish face that was very familiar to her. He had red hair…the tell-tail red hair of the Weasleys. "And you're Charlie!" she said brightly with an amused grin. 

                "You're kidding me!" was Charlie's ungracious reply. 

                "No," Jude replied, her amusement fading. "It has been quite a while, hasn't it?"

                "I'll say!" He smiled warmly and looked her over. "You haven't changed a bit, Jude!"

                Her smile faltered. "Ugh. Don't say that." But she sensed that it was not meant unkindly. She knew she still looked to be about seventeen, just a little bit more worn around the edges. She shook her thoughts free and plastered another smile on to replace the one that had run away. "Look at you, Charlie Weasley! A dragon-man, impressive!"

                "Well, it does sound stupid when you put it like that!" He laughed genuinely. It was a carefree laugh that reminded her somewhat of Rhys. It was delightful, yet painful to hear that laugh. "So, a teacher, huh?"

                She nodded, a bit embarrassed at the pronouncement. 

                "What do you teach?"

                "Muggle Studies." 

                The look of shock and disbelief that crossed his face was priceless, Jude thought, but totally unoriginal. She knew what everyone thought—that it was the biggest anathema for her to be the Muggles Studies teacher at Hogwarts considering who and what she had once been. Yet it was amusing to see it so apparent on someone's face—a face like Charlie's—someone so honest and frank that they couldn't possibly hide what they were thinking. "I know, it is a bit of a joke."

                "No, it isn't. I'm sure your wonderful at it," he stammered, trying to fix the minor mess he'd made of his reaction. 

                She turned her attention back to the dragons, looking for a way to change the subject. "So, what on earth are these dragons doing here?"

                He looked at her suspiciously. "I don't think I should tell you…you're a teacher, after all. You could be spying for a student for all I know."

                "Aw, come on, Charlie. You don't want me to beat it out of you, do you?" she said with a mischievous smile. 

                "Well, all right. Although I doubt you could make good on that threat."

                He led her a little closer to the menacing creatures, pointing out the different species, their strengths and weaknesses…

                "This is what the First Task is going to be?" Jude asked incredulously. "To survive a dragon. What? Do they earn points for walking away instead of crawling?"

                Charlie shook his head. "It's not that dangerous, really. C'mon, Jude! Since when have you been scared of anything?" 

                She huffed indignantly. "Never. But they're just kids, Charlie. Do you really expect them to know how to handle these things?"

                He looked at her curiously. "Not my idea, Jude. Ludo Bagman came up with this one. Pretty tough, but nothing they can't handle. Plus, if anyone does get into trouble, I'll be standing by." He puffed out his chest importantly. 

                "Oh, that's reassuring," she muttered. Charlie made a mock-wounded face, but it was as good as lost on her. She had already headed down a path of thought. This was Ludo's idea? That wasn't too comforting. 

                _"Ludo," she heard from the scant break in the thick damask of the drapes. "A magnificent win last night!" It was the thick Russian accent that had become familiar to her. _

_                "Well, thanks, Igor, but the victory was slightly bitter. Only a fifty-point lead, you know. If Fletcher thinks we're going to have a shot at the World Cup this year, he'll be sorely disappointed if Finch and Beller keep playing this way." She could smell the smoke of a cigar. Bagman was a well-known Quidditch star and playboy with a taste for all things expensive. Even crime. The higher the cost—the more the risk—the more attractive it became. And Bagman was never one to resist temptation._

_                "Shall we begin then, Gentlemen?" A cold voice spoke that froze the little spy to her core. Lucius Malfoy._

_                Jude fought to slow her breathing. Everything was at stake here. Her life, namely…but honor as well. If she could come up with the damning evidence, she could finally denounce the snake to her Master. It was her sole drive, to please her Lord. But Lucius was cautious…much more cautious than the idiots he was forced to rely on._

_                "Ludovic, have you anything new to bring to the table besides cheap cigars and bad wine?" Lucius' cold drawl was unmistakable. _

_                There was a spot of nervous laughter before a response was attempted. "The cigars are Cuban and the wine is Tokaj. Not cheap, I can assure you, Lucius."_

_                "In comparison to what, Ludovic? Your suit? No, you are quite right." _

_                More polite laughter._

_                "Lucius, I have just come from Rookwoood's office. You know he's a family friend but fiercely loyal to Lord Voldemort. Thinks of me like a son, just give me time. He'll turn easier than a Cleansweep."_

_                "Are you confident in his conversion? I cannot afford to waste time and effort on Augustus. It would be valuable to have a man in the Department of the Mysteries, but I can get around it if I have to."_

_                "Positive, Lucius," Bagman replied assuredly. _

_                "Do not give too much about us away. If he is as loyal as you say to that fraud, then he is still dangerous." Lucius said silkily. Footsteps, steady and measured, were advancing to the window. Jude held her breath. Someone was standing in front of the window. She could feel the tenseness of a presence next to her, hear the movement of Italian leather shoes on the polished wood floors of the study. _

_                "Soon, Gentlemen. Very soon Lord Voldemort will learn that he holds sway over us no more. His promises are empty, his honor worthless." It was Lucius' voice…cold and smooth, with feeling not unlike anything she'd heard before. He believed in his mission fiercely, but attacked it with little passion. Passion signified a weakness to this man. And he was plotting the demise of her Master coldly, cruelly, bending his servants to his traitorous will. _

_                "But until then, Lucius, it does us little good to spout useless dogma." A new voice lent itself to the conversation. Harsh, like a knife's edge, yet devious and deceptive. It was the voice of the man Jude despised most. He was playing every side there was against the other and she alone knew of his deceit. He was not loyal to Lucius. He was not loyal to Lord Voldemort. He was loyal to himself alone. Severus Snape. "We must bide our time and speak of this as little as possible. If we make enemies on both sides, none of us will survive to see this done."_

_                The man at the window, just beyond her line of sight, sighed audibly. "You are right, as always, Severus. But everyday he grows stronger."_

                "Jude?" 

                "Huh?" she said quickly, startled out of her thoughts. "Sorry, Charlie. The dragons are amazing," she added quickly trying to cover for her lack of attention. 

                "Are you okay?" He was eyeing her with concern.

                "Oh, just a bit tired, I guess." 

                From the corner of her eye, she saw Hagrid milling about with Madame Maxime, pointing out the different kinds of dragons in the paddock. Over her shoulder, hidden in the shadows of the trees, she saw Karkaroff. So, everyone was spying, trying to gain the upper hand. Maxime and Karkaroff would tip off their students—hell, they'd probably tell them exactly how to get past them. But what about Harry and Cedric? Jude wondered. They would have to just get by on their own ingenuity. She had little doubt that Harry could handle himself—she'd seen him take on worse and come out without so much as a scratch. But Cedric…he was looking like the hopeless underdog right about now. 

                "I have to go," she said suddenly. 

                Charlie smiled. "It was good to see you again, Jude. You coming to the Task?"

                She nodded her confirmation. "It was good to see you, too, Charlie." She meant it. It had been ages since she'd seen someone she'd gone to school with and it was not so bad. At least she hadn't run into Bill.

                "Hey, and don't go blabbing about the dragons, okay?"

                "You have my word, Charlie…for what it's worth." She smiled slyly and headed back to the castle, Darcy trotting at her heels.

***

                "Try again, Harry."

                Jude heard the familiar voice echo down the silent, deserted hall. It was Hermione. 

                As she drew near the door, she peeked in to see Hermione demonstrate a perfectly executed Summoning Charm. Then she looked to Harry to follow the example. 

                So, Jude thought, Hermione is helping him prepare for the First Task. Briefly she wondered what on earth he could possibly summon to aid in fighting a dragon, but she brushed it off. Tomorrow she would know and right now she just wanted to forget about it. 

                She'd been following Ludo Bagman's every move for three days—ever since Charlie told her the dragons were Ludo's idea. But he'd come out spotless—only a little gambling with Goblins, but otherwise completely clean. She had a feeling that would all change. But she refused to worry about it anymore that night. 

                Thinking of Charlie, she was actually glad that he was going to be there at the task tomorrow. For all the cracks she'd made earlier before, she noticed he was really quite comfortable with dragons—a natural. It was reassuring to know that he would be there to stave off any mishap—contrived or otherwise.

                Karkaroff also seemed more wrapped up in giving his champion an advantage that he seemed like no more of a threat to Harry than stiff competition. The lack of activity did little to assuage her fears, however.

 "When it's quiet, that's when you should really start to worry," Jude repeated Mrs. Bertram's words. The old lady in charge of the orphanage where she grew up was usually referring to her when she said that. 

***

The enclosure where the dragons had only been two days before was now a large tent, shielding the beasts from view. Through the light material of the tent she could hear the tense chatter of the entire student population. It crackled sharply on the brittle winter air, raising the tension Jude felt by degrees. 

She pushed the anxious feelings down, hiding behind a façade of cool indifference, frigidly matching the temperature of the frosty air, and skirted the tent in search of someone. As she rounded a silken corner of the makeshift arena, she heard terse whispering and dutiful responses. Two bodies became rigid as she appeared—Karkaroff and his champion eyed her suspiciously as she walked past them. Watching them shrewdly, she continued on her way. 

"Headmaster Karkaroff, champions are supposed to be in the tent already." Her words were icy and stern. He narrowed his eyes at her and the boy only stared from one to the other, confused.

She noted that the man nodded quickly then turned on his heels and lead his student into the confines. Shaking her head, she willed herself not to jump to any conclusions as to what he might have been up to out here. Extra attention and caution were necessary today, but her reserves were running low. A dull weariness crept into every fiber of her being as did the cold, both effectively slowing down her every reflex. 

The person she sought smiled and nodded in her direction as he saw her approaching. Charlie was standing dangerously close to the fire-breathing, overly scaled, hungry-looking and ill-tempered creatures. She halted her progress and shook her head. He would have to come to her—she would go no further. Bravery was one thing—stupid was another. 

"And you're turning these loose on four kids in twenty minutes?" Jude asked, shaking her head. 

"Not me," he had to remind her once again. She couldn't help but number him among the collaborators, however innocent he was. "They can handle it, Jude. And I'll be right by the ring if anything were to…er…happen."

She frowned at the weak assurance. Charlie could handle the dragons, she was sure. It was the other thing she was worried about. What was going to happen? What did _they_ have planned?

"Do you mind if I watch with you?" she asked quickly, mentally scoffing at herself for how fawning and insipid that sounded. "Something might go wrong…something other than dragons, Charlie," she quickly amended, seeing a wry grin appear at his lips. 

"Not you, too," he pleaded incredulously. 

"What?" she said, becoming incensed by his cavalier attitude. "There's something going on here, Charlie. I know it. I can _feel_ it."

At this pronouncement he stopped smirking and his face became grave and interested. 

"And you think this has something to do with Harry mysteriously being named the fourth champion?" he asked conspiringly. 

"I think it has everything to do with it."

He stared at her, unblinking and frowning. "It could be dangerous," he warned.

She just smiled and followed him into the tent. 

They were all there: Karkaroff, Bagman and Crouch, lined up in a neat little row at the judges' table. Ludo was announcing loudly and the crowd shouting frantically as Cedric entered from a side of the ring, sheepishly waving to the crowd and staring wide-eyed and trance-like at a towering bluish-gray form snorting smoke. 

Charlie raised his wand threateningly at it as two of his comrades released the tethers keeping it in check. 

"Swedish Short-Snout," he informed Jude excitedly as she stood, rigid with tension, next to him. She hardly heard a word he or the obnoxious announcer, Ludo, said as she had every ounce of attention fixed on Cedric. 

Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes away from the boy and scanned the crowds for anything suspicious. Then she turned her attention to the judges. They were watching, transfixed, as Cedric Transfigured a rock into a dog—Professor McGonagall would be impressed, Jude thought. None of the usual suspects watching the performance seemed threatening at all, but she would wait and see when it was Harry's turn. 

Next to her, she felt Charlie move swiftly forward, casting strong ropes from his wand, binding the dragon as it breathed. The dog had failed to distract the dragon and it had charged Cedric, spouting fire as he dove for the egg. He rolled away just in time, the prized golden egg clasped to his chest. The crowd cheered as he held his trophy in the air, but Jude noticed him limp as he retreated to a corner where Madam Pomfrey stood waiting, wringing her hands. 

"Good show," Charlie muttered as the two wizards returned and tethered the Short-Snout, dragging it off only to replace it with a menacing green thing. 

"What happened to him?" Jude asked, watching as Madam Pomfrey wrapped his arm with downy gauze. "Did he get burned?"

"I'd imagine he got it pretty good. Didn't give up though…he got the egg, didn't he?" he questioned as she gave him a livid and incredulous glare. "Hey, it's not so bad. I've been burned hundreds of times."

She just shook her head and returned her attention to the new dragon. A large, leaf-colored thing with huge, armored scales and abundant spikes—this was the image she'd conjured when reading about knights in fairy tales when she was young. The storybook dragon, Charlie announced, was a Welsh Green, and probably the tamest…as far as dragons went. 

Crossing her fingers, she hoped that Harry would appear in the ring to fight this one—after Cedric's near miss, she was positively jumpy with worried anxiety. But it was not. The blond girl appeared instead, looking as haughty and aloof as possible. Immediately the girl raised her wand and cast a spell that rendered the beast almost docile, in a trance-like state. It flailed around momentarily, wobbling precariously this way and that, threatening to topple over onto the frantic crowd. The girl had to bob and weave as the dragon stumbled drunkenly and finally managed to snatch the designated egg. Narrowly dodging the whip-like tail, she was out of harms way in fifteen minutes. 

The stumbling and unstable dragon in a trance was guided carefully out of the rink and replaced by a bristling red creature with a malicious smile and shaggy mane. 

"Chinese?" Jude ventured a guess. It looked exactly like the Chinese dragons in parades—the colorful paper things that wiggle through the streets on holidays. 

Charlie nodded and watched tensely as the wizards released their hold on the binds. "A Chinese Fireball. And this one has a temper. Not as bad as the Horntail, but nasty nonetheless."

Jude could tell that he was nervous. And at the description of the Fireball, she understood why. If Harry's name wasn't called next, he would be facing the most fearsome of the hellish beasts. 

Ludo stood and announced with a flourish the next champion. 

"Dumb fucking luck!" she head Charlie whisper brashly next to her. She shared his feelings. It was Krum. 

Jude watched without blinking her eyes as the large Bulgarian boy took an antagonizing step toward the ill-humored dragon. He looked over his shoulder to Karkaroff who was intently watching his student. He smiled and nodded to the boy. Jude took a step closer. 

He raised his wand at the dragon and shouted the Conjunctivitus Spell. It hit its mark squarely in the beast's eye. The dragon thrashed wildly around as Krum tried to navigate a path through the thundering and wild steps of the creature. Jude was watching so intently that she did not realize Charlie had seized her by the wrist and hauled her back several feet from the flailing dragon. 

"Don't move!" he shouted tensely and rushed to the ring with four other wizards, wands all leveled at the irate creature. Krum had dodged a ball of fire from the flame-thrower's mouth and rolled away from the nest just as one heavy and scaled, clawed foot came crashing down on the clutch. Karkaroff rose, gripping the table, his knuckles white. He relaxed only as Krum got to his feet. The crowd was silent, anticipating. The wizards had gained enough of a hold on the dragon to keep its wild movement in check. 

The cheering of the crowd as Krum lifted the golden egg into the air was enough to send the dragon into another incensed rage. With difficulty and a few more hands, the caretakers were able to haul the Chinese Fireball out of the tent. Charlie was ranting to a man Jude assumed was his superior, gesturing frantically to the destroyed eggs. The man walked over to the officials and only after a moment of hushed conversation with the judges was the next and last creature brought in. 

Charlie stormed back over to Jude who gave him a questioning glance. "They weren't supposed to harm the eggs. I told him we should've used decoys! I hope that kid's disqualified!" He was livid. 

A monstrous, black and scaly creature awaited the last champion—Harry. The dragon looked horrifying! Its menacing yellow eyes fixed on the small boy the second he stepped into the light and didn't leave him for a second. The long, spiked tail swung in powerful swipes, carving large gouges in the ground behind it. 

Deep breaths were inadequate to slow Jude's pounding heart. The time had come—Harry had to prove himself to allies and enemies alike, whether he was ready to or not. She hoped he had some trick up his sleeve.           

He raised his wand and shouted "_Accio Firebolt_!" Seconds later his broom arrived. Jude was briefly reminded of what a point of contention that very broom had been just a short year ago. She had verbally thrashed his godfather, Black, for risking everything to give it to him. She still thought on it bitterly, but couldn't really hold it against Black. And that was then—she needed to focus on the now. 

Her anxiety, already at the breaking point, was feeding off of Charlie's tension and threatening to break its dam. She couldn't watch, but she had no other choice. 

 As he swooped and dove over the dragon's head, teasing it, tempting it to move from its guarded position, she watched rigidly, marveling at how well he handled the broom. Harry flew with an easy and natural grace that wasn't hard to admire even for someone like Jude. She hated flying and just the thought of hurling at a break-neck speed several meters off the ground made her dizzy, but she noticed how comfortable he seemed on his broom. He was in his element—even if he was facing down a spiked, fire-breathing creature that was hell bent on eating him. 

Falling into a sharp dive, Jude noticed the dragon's head following every clipped and precise move. Harry seemed to know what the dragon was thinking—he pulled up just in time to avoid becoming singed by the huge jet of flames the creature emitted. He flew this way and that, finally coaxing the dragon to give ground and follow him away from its clutch of eggs. He flew high, then higher…and higher. The dragon tried to follow, stretching its neck to its fullest extent. She shot fire into the air and Harry skirted it a little too closely for Jude's comfort. The dragon opened her jaws wide, the barbed tail thrashing more wildly than before…it unfolded its great, leathery wings, the length of a small airplane, rising up on its hind legs…stretching.

That's when he dove. Hurtling toward the ground, faster and faster. Jude couldn't watch, yet she knew that she had to…she had no other choice. Raising her left hand, she prepared for the worst, recalling the strongest Levitation Spell she could think of. 

Closer and closer. Just a few feet more and then the unforgiving ground…the dragon…it would be over. Whoever had set him up would win—they would get what they wanted. And then, to Jude's utter astonishment, he pulled out of the insane dive, scooping up the egg easily as he swooped past the nest. The crowd as a collective whole was on its feet, a great cheering, many-headed entity. 

Harry was beaming as he landed safely. Charlie and his colleagues soon had the huffing, hissing Hungarian Horntail under straining tethers. Harry had the egg under one arm and the other was bleeding freely. Jude shrugged. Not bad for some kid with every odd stacked against him. Still, as she looked over at the table and examined the line-up, she was convinced that whoever was behind the goblet incident was biding their time. While far from easy, Jude knew instinctively that the culprit had not thrown anything remotely dangerous in Harry's path…yet. They would rear their ugly head, or heads as she thought better of it, as the tournament progressed. 

She sighed as she felt the tension melt from her shoulders and drain from her body in waves of relief. The Hungarian Horntail was gone, roped with its other horrible companions and the kids were over in the corner receiving the formidable attentions of Poppy Pomfrey. 

"Well," Charlie said amiably, rejoining his friend in the tent. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" 

All she could muster as a response was a cruel glare. 

"Okay, but you have to admit, that was one hell of a good time!" He was grinning insanely. Jude shook her head and moved over to a seat and collapsed. She was tired. 

"So, you taking those filthy dragons home soon?" she asked, summoning as much cheer as she could find. 

"Yeah. They need a good rest from their trials," he said sadly as he thought of his poor, maligned, helpless dragons being tortured by the rough kids. 

"And where is home for you now, Charlie Weasley?"

"Romania, the dragon reserve is there. I've been with the place for, oh, five or so years now."

"It agrees with you," she said, giving him a small smile, one of the last genuine ones she felt she possessed. "You seem happy—bloody insane—but happy."

"I am," he replied. They maintained the friendly silence until the judges revealed their scores. Cedric did well despite the accident. Krum did worse, having suffered a penalty for causing the dragon to trample her eggs. Fleur did well, however uncreative and bland her method was. But the true leader was Harry, who'd not only beaten the dragon, but had done so while wowing the crowds, and despite a heavy bias in Karkaroff's scoring, maintained a good lead above Cedric and Krum, falling almost even with Fleur. 

As the crowds broke up and drifted noisily to the castle, Jude remained behind at a glance from Dumbledore who was tying up loose ends with the other officials. He ambled slowly in her direction as Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, in a heated debate over some contested point, headed after the crowd to the warm confines of the castle. 

"A great showing for our school," Dumbledore began in greeting. Jude nodded wearily, yet pleased as well with the outcome of the First Task. "Mr. Diggory and Mr. Potter performed admirably." 

Again she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

"The next task is set for February the twenty-fourth. It will give our champions a well-earned rest."

"Yes," she agreed fervently, relishing the fact that she too would have until February to forget about it all. 

"You are aware that the school is hosting a ball this Yuletide season for our guests." She nodded dully, wondering if he was about to get to the point. She couldn't guarantee her full attention for much longer. "I will require the presence of my entire staff at the event." He glared a bit harshly at her, emphasizing the word _entire_. 

"But Professor, I planned to spend the holiday with…" she stammered ungracefully, forgetting herself for a moment. It was not like her to talk back to a professor, let alone to Dumbledore. He held up a hand to silence her.

He smiled kindly. "I know you would rather be anywhere else but in the same room with certain of our guests. But I would not ask such a sacrifice if I didn't deem it necessary. I would be grateful if you would accept." It didn't sound like he was giving her another option. She nodded dutifully and accepted without any further protestations. 

He slapped his hands together. "Splendid!" he exclaimed gleefully. Turning to the opening in the tent that served as the grand entryway, he asked if she would be accompanying him back to the castle. She declined politely, begging leave to wish Charlie a safe trip back to Romania…and to fume over this new torture that awaited her on December the Twenty-fifth. Instead of chipping the ice off of her civil relationship with her brother, she would have to waste her holiday sucking up to the insipid Madame Maxime and skirting a confrontation with Karkaroff. 

Watching Dumbledore round the corner and pass from her sight, she kicked the nearest bench and swore passionately. The impact of the hard wood on her numb and frozen foot was blinding, but she ignored it and limped off to find Charlie to bid him as friendly a farewell as she could manage. 


	37. Ugly

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Warner Bros., Raincoast Books, Scholastic Books, etc. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended. All other characters and ideas are the property of the author, except for Minister Howard Jennings. He is the literary property of **Tajuki**: check out her fabulous works right here on ff.n.

Author's Note: This chapter was a long time in coming. There are still parts that I feel could have been better, but I guess this will have to do. Any comments or questions as regarding this and other chapters are of course always welcome. Russian phrases used in this chapter (hopefully accurately) are translated as follows: _shavala_—slut or whore; _govn'uk_—bastard. Literary characters mentioned are the property of their respective authors (mentioned in conjunction with them in the text). Ideas expressed, however, are the ideas of this author. A minor spoiler for _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in this chapter—those of you who haven't read it, don't flame me for ruining it for you. Also, I highly recommend it!

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ugly 

_'Cause I'm on the outside_

_And I'm looking in _

_I can see through you_

_See your true colors_

_And inside you're ugly_

_You're ugly like me_

And I can see through you 

_See to the real you'_

_Staind, 'Outside'_

                It was snowing again—harder than yesterday, and the wind blew with more ferocity. Indira walked arm in arm with Jude down the busy street that created the heart of the village that was Hogsmeade. 

                "It'll be fun! You'll see!" Indira placated her friend as she tugged her into the warm, welcoming air of a small shop. They had avoided coming here on the weekend, one of Jude's many stipulations for joining her friend on this escapade. She had no intention of running into any of her students on such an embarrassing errand. 

                Jude grumbled a barely audible, "I doubt it," but allowed herself to be ushered into the dressmaker's all the same. 

                "Isn't it wonderful," Indira marveled, looking around at the silks and velvets that lined the walls, fashioned into brilliantly colored dresses modeled by plastic mannequins. "I love shopping!" 

                Jude watched in astonishment as Indira ran a hand over an expensive, fur-lined evening gown, appraising its quality like an expert. Her dark haired friend was definitely in her element—her exotic beauty would only lend to the splendor of such gowns. Jude however felt as much out of place as a rugby player in a ballet. Instinctively, she hugged her woolen navy coat closer and kept her distance from the numerous pink and ruffled things. Flowers and bows, beads and fur. This was not for her. She calculated the distance between herself and the door and wondered if she could get there before Indira could stop her. 

                Sensing she was at risk of being abandoned, Indira walked casually over to Jude and ushered her further into the shop, a gently restraining arm around her shoulders. "It doesn't have to be as bad as you think. Just loosen up and you'll be fine." 

                Jude had already disclosed her full feelings to Indira about the Yule Ball and her apprehension over anything to do with it. Indira had then excitedly proposed to her that they shop together for the event. Jude shook her head, fearing that Indira, in all her sweet and good-natured attempts to make it better, would end up making it that much more excruciating. 

                "Well, good afternoon, ladies," an old and very chipper woman accosted them. Indira smiled broadly. Jude feared her own attempt at a friendly smile appeared more like a grimace. The woman was decked out in a swath of tape measures and pins stuck about her like a giant pincushion. "I assume you are on the quest that has sent many ladies my way as of late?" 

                Indira nodded and explained their task. Then she and the woman bustled about, chatting easily over fabrics and styles. Jude looked around hesitantly, fingering some of the soft linens and satins. Within minutes, Indira had returned to Jude's side bearing a number of gowns in every shade imaginable. With her free hand, she grabbed Jude's wrist and pulled her to the back of the shop. "Into the dressing room you go," she said, pushing the girl behind a slatted, swinging wooden door, throwing the heap of gowns over the partition. "Now I want to see you in ever single one of those," she laughed as she resumed browsing with the old dressmaker. "Every single one, Jude," Indira warned for good measure. 

                Jude rifled through the pile of satin and brocade, her eyes growing wider with astonishment. Half of them were so richly embroidered and beaded that she could never in good conscience do more in them than stand stock still, daring only to blink, for fear of doing damage to something so delicate and beautiful. The other half were of brilliantly luminous colors that someone of her plain complexion and modest looks could never hope to pull off. Deep reds and blacks, only someone of Indira's beauty could hope to do the thing any justice at all. She would simply look ridiculous. 

                Sighing with all of the injustice she felt at the moment, she pulled off her jumper over her head, causing her hair to stick up in a sandy, statically charged halo. She smoothed it down with one hand and pulled the first gown off of the door. 

                A few of them were to Jude's liking, but Indira thought them too plain, not the right color for her, or lacking in some other way. Then, with a mischievous smile, Indira tossed her a rich, red wine colored heap of satin. "Try this one, darling. The color's stunning." 

                Jude held up the dress and her mouth fell open with astonishment. "Indira! We're teachers! I can't wear this!" It was indeed stunning—a sleeveless, elegant Marilyn Monroe inspired gown perfectly suited to a movie star or a celebrity, but not a particularly plain and modest Hogwarts teacher.

                Indira simply smiled and shook her head. "Try it on anyway! It's gorgeous!" Her friend shoved her back into the dressing room and tossed the gown in behind her before retreating. 

                Jude held up the dress and smiled at her reflection. She could never wear something like this, but it may be fun to pretend just this once. Pretend that she was someone different, someone one-hundred-and-eighty degrees Jude Elliot's opposite. She pulled the dress over her head and marveled at how well it fit. Smiling and biting her lip, she pulled her short hair into a twist and modeled the stunning dress. Turning to admire the low back of the gown, she let her hair and her smile fall. The same girl looked out of the mirror—the very same girl she had been all her life, the same face…and the same scars. She could never escape this person, no matter how hard she tried. But at least for that moment…

                "Well?" Indira asked beyond the doors. 

                "Well, what?" Jude retorted, surveying herself in the mirror once more. "If you think I'm coming out there wearing this, you're seriously mistaken." 

                "Oh, come on, Jude," Indira laughed. Jude hardly had a moment to react before her friend had seized her and was tugging her out of her hiding place. "Let's see."

                "No!" Jude managed to cry before stumbling out into the middle of the shop. 

                "Why not, you look…" Indira broke off. Horrified, Jude noted the look on her face. It was identical to the astonishment written all over the old dressmaker's face. 

                "Good Lord, child! What happened to you?" the old lady gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks and staring wide-eyed. 

                Jude simply groaned, rubbing her eyes with one hand. She had many scars. Some were easier to explain away than others. She'd never had to tell this story to anyone before and hell if she was going to break that record now. Deep marks crisscrossed her back, cutting pale latticework into her skin. Closing her eyes, she simply wished the questions and the interrogating looks from her friend would go away. Could it be too much to hope that she would just pretend she had not seen a thing? Would Indira ignore something like this?

                A hand on her bare shoulder caused her to tense, her body becoming rigid. "Jude, how…" Indira stopped at a look from the girl. Jude was shaking her head.

                "It doesn't matter how. All that matters is that I would do it again if I had to." Her expression was stony and brooked no further discussion of the subject. 

                "I'm sorry…" Indira tried to apologize. 

                Jude smiled weakly and squeezed Indira's hand. "It's not your fault. The dress really isn't my color anyway."  Retreating back to the safety of the dressing room, she shot the flabbergasted old woman a cold glance. "I'll take the gray one," she remarked shortly before disappearing behind the doors. 

***

                The day she'd been dreading dawned crystalline and cold. A new snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the world in an elegant cloak of pearl and diamond frost. It was a beautiful Christmas morning, but Jude was entirely too wound up to notice. It was safe to say that she had not slept more than a scant twenty minutes—maybe less—the whole night. She sat up in her familiar bed, the air cold enough that she could see her breath in her room, and hugged her knees to her chest. Biting her lip and shivering under her sweater, she tried to recall again the exact sequence of the dream that had startled her from her short rest. It seemed, though, that the dream had slipped away the second that she'd opened her eyes. Now the only images that she could recall were walls of green—leafy, like trees…or bushes of some kind—that stretched on in convoluted alleys, giving her the feeling of being trapped in a rabbit's warren. Hopelessly lost and hopelessly confused, she remembered that she had been searching for something. But what it was, she could not recall. In fact, she tried to think if she'd been aware at all of what it was she sought. That conclusion never came. 

                She shook her head and tossed the warm safety of the blankets away and flinched as her bare feet came in contact with the icy stone floor. Something about this dream was strange somehow…different from any other dream she'd had, as far back as she could remember. She frowned, puzzling over what it was that made her so uneasy about the dream. Bending to rub Darcy's ears as if to say, "Good Morning," to her dog, she caught the silver glint of her bracelet in the low light of early morning. And it struck her. Dreams—every dream she'd ever had, ever been haunted by—was of something in the past. Nightmares of what had already happened. This dream seemed so foreign because it was just that—foreign. She'd never seen the tight, claustrophobic confines of foliage before and she could never remember having frantically searched a place for something of great value, she assumed, before. She sat by Darcy, stroking her silky fur absently, puzzling over what it could mean, if indeed it meant something at all. Darcy's restlessness to make tracks through the newly fallen snow pulled her from her daze and reminded her that she could not possibly hide in her room forever. 

***

                Laughter, chatter. Jude heard it even from the third floor landing. Students already packed the Great Hall, and all were anxious to return to their snowball fights or other amusements that had packed their day already. She couldn't help but feel a little of the tension rise from her shoulders at such a pleasant sound. Darcy trotted happily along behind her and followed her into the noisy room. Karkaroff was already there, seated next to Professor McGonagall and Madame Maxime. Professor McGonagall eyed Darcy, apparently displeased by the sight of the dog. Jude studiously ignored the stern looks—Filch's wretched cat was always around yet she never minded that before, and surely she wouldn't grudge her the pleasure of Darcy's company for lunch on Christmas Day. She chose a seat farthest away from Karkaroff. Until she absolutely had to be civil and polite to the man, she maintained her distance. Indira smiled up at her from a pile of star charts she was looking over. Jude smiled a measured smile back at the woman. Indira had graciously ignored any recollection of the uncomfortable scene in the dress shop. Jude was thankful, to say the least. 

                "I was beginning to think that you weren't coming, dear," Indira said as she marked dark red swaths over the parchment in front of her. "Orion next to Scorpio," she tutted disdainfully. "You'd think students were trying to fail my class, not pass it." 

                Jude smiled at Indira politely. She pretended to know what she was on about, not willing to mention that she herself had been crap at Astronomy. To maintain her top spot in the class in her days at school, she had to work extraordinarily hard at it. The stars were for dreamers, like Indira. Jude had never been drawn to such romantic pursuits. But she would never say such a thing to her friend. Indira was fiercely loyal to her area of study, as were most scholars, Jude had learned. So she pretended to listen with fabricated interest. Darcy curled up at her feet and unenthusiastically watched as Mrs. Norris stalked in dark corners of the hall. 

                Dumbledore made a few cursory announcements, which Jude and most of the students ignored. She was just as eager as the students to be out of the hall again. Her close proximity to Karkaroff and Moody was unsettling, to say the least. Yet she'd promised Dumbledore to not only show up to the events of the day, but to be polite and charitable to their guests. Jude was doubtful that she could perform if it came to that. It felt as if time ticked toward disaster. She could sense it. 

                Looking out over the students as they chatted eagerly to one another, she and Indira maintained amiable and superficial conversation through the meal. Jude felt the sinking realization that, whatever Indira had thought during that day, she still thought it now. Only she was too good and kind to bring it up, Jude mused. She didn't blame her friend, though. It would pass, this awkward feeling, Jude told herself as she noted two identical red heads bent in conversation with a boy sporting dreadlocks. Everyone seemed excited about this evening. Almost everyone, Jude thought ruefully as she surveyed the head table. She knew of a few teachers that shared her sentiments. Still, they looked on it as a duty. She looked on it as sheer torture. Maybe there was still a chance she could convince Dumbledore to let her off…

                "Bloody Hell!"

                Every eye in the room turned to her as she dropped her goblet on the table and jumped up from her chair, flinging her hands. The goblet landed on the wooden table with a loud thud, only it was not a goblet. No longer pewter, no longer goblet-shaped at all, the vessel now scurried over the table and onto the floor with the utmost haste. It was a rat—a hairy, twitching, squeaking rat. Jude hated rats. She hated them!

                The rat skittered onto the floor and down the hall between the wildly laughing Gryffindors and hysterically screeching Hufflepuffs, with Darcy hot on its heels. Filch and Mrs. Norris immediately pursued. It took a moment for Jude to catch her breath—it was quite a shock for a goblet to turn into a vile rat mere centimeters from her lips. As she looked up from the table, her eyes fixed on the two red heads, who high-fived each other—the Weasleys. They were the leaders of the laughing chorus. And she knew immediately—she'd just been one-uped. They'd gotten her finally. She grinned and shook her head, utterly astonished. Well, they certainly could pick their moments—she'd been very, very distracted as of late, and it was the perfect setting for absolute humiliation. Professors and students all present. They'd obviously watched her in the past months, they knew exactly, without a doubt where she would sit, by whom she would sit…She couldn't have planned it better herself. The sheer brilliance of it…

                Her dissection of the prank was ended abruptly as she caught Professor McGonagall's furious glare. The other teachers looked only slightly less scandalized. She must look like a complete mental case, she judged and quickly sat, muttering a faint apology. McGonagall motioned for her to see her afterward. Jude knew that gesture—she'd known it since she was a student here. That meant big trouble. Could it get any worse, Jude mused darkly. And she remembered that it most definitely could and most likely would. Tonight. 

***

                "One of your most solemn duties is to uphold the reputation of this school, Miss Elliot!" McGonagall raged, pacing the length of her tidy desk, glaring murderously at Jude, who tried dutifully to look penitent. 

                "I was startled, that's all," she defended weakly, but her slight grin set McGonagall on another bout of pacing and glaring. 

                The Deputy Headmistress stopped suddenly and rounded on her. "This is no laughing matter! Must I remind you that we wish to present a _favorable_ impression to our guests? A teacher…At this school…Using such…Profanity! In front of students, no less! I must say that I am very disappointed, very disappointed indeed!" 

                Jude flinched. She hated that. Being a disappointment. That's probably why McGonagall said it—she probably had a handbook somewhere on how to make people feel horrible. She uttered another weak apology, knowing that McGonagall would relent sooner or later. Probably later. 

                "And I assume you know who was behind this…this juvenile stunt?" McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line and looked at Jude over her rectangle spectacles. Jude knew she knew. How could anyone not? Still…

                "No." Jude answered in a dull voice, hoping McGonagall believed her, or at least saw her point. Jude didn't want Fred and George to wind up in detention on a night that was supposed to be fun, that all of the students were looking forward to. "Must have done it myself. I should be more careful."

                McGonagall eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then sat behind her desk, shuffling papers. "Very well," McGonagall said finally, reluctantly. Jude knew her sense of justice, of respect for rules was fighting her desire to overlook this. "You may go."

                Jude got up to leave, thanking the professor shortly and heading for the door. She was stayed with a word from the stern woman. 

                "Do try to maintain some decorum tonight, Miss Elliot. I don't know if I can handle another shock of that sort. I am an old woman, for pity's sake." She smiled briefly before bending back over her papers, waving a hand in dismissal. 

                "I'll do my best, Professor," Jude promised as she left. 

                Closing the door behind her, she turned and almost ran into two identically mirthful faces. "Admit it! You've finally met your match!"

                "Nothing of the sort!" Jude huffed, turning on her heels and walking away from the boys. 

                "So?" the other called.

                "So, what?" she returned, stopping to look at the boys. 

                "Are we next? Is she mad?"

                Jude smiled. "No, it was an accident, right?" She smiled slyly as the boys exchanged stunned looks. "I really should be more careful." 

                "Really? Are you serious?" They were staring, open-mouthed. 

                "It was a good joke, guys. I needed that. And I suspect she was pretty impressed with the transfiguration." Jude smiled and folded her arms over her chest. 

                Fred and George smirked. "I wanted to try a toad, but Fred insisted on a rat. We had to ask Hermione to fix it up a bit."

                "Yeah, George left the tail. Told her it was homework. Gullible girl, that one."

                George nudged his brother. "I still say it should have been a toad."

                Jude shook her head ruefully. "The rat was good." 

                "Hey, thanks," he replied, grinning from ear to ear. 

                "This isn't over, by the way." Jude rounded the corner and the boys were out of sight. She smiled a small smile and headed for the grounds to hunt Darcy down. Surely she should be done with her rat hunt by now. It was getting late in the day. 

***

                The mirror was small. This fact was normally more of a comfort to Jude. It was her least favorite thing in the room. Now it frustrated her to no end; it laughed at her, mocked her. She stood as far back in the small bathroom as she could and tried to fit more of her own image into the narrow expanse of glass, but all was to no avail. She brushed her hair and heaved a sigh, frowning. This was as good as it was ever going to get. 

                Patting Darcy on the head, she closed the door to her room with a snap, leaving her dog to the solitude, wishing she could stay behind the safe walls with her. She knew she could not. She set off down the hall. As she threaded her way through the students milling about in the hall, she felt a hand grab her arm. Turning, she faced Indira who beamed at her friend. 

                "So? What do you think?" She twirled once, modeling beautiful robes of burgundy and rich black. Indira looked like she'd stepped out of an exotic fairytale, something from _Arabian Nights_. She certainly didn't look as if she belonged in this drab castle in Scotland. 

                Jude smiled, a little self-conscious. Indira seemed pleased with her reaction. "The necklace is gorgeous," Jude managed after a small pause. It was a stunning ruby in cloisonné, of Middle Eastern design she guessed. It was the first thing to catch her eye, a fair task when the whole of Indira's appearance was a picture of regal elegance. 

                The dark woman waved a hand dismissively. "My mother's. It's been in the family for ages. She gave it to me before I left Riyadh. She'd be pleased to know it's finally being put to use." The story behind the necklace was probably interesting, as was every one of Indira's stories about objects from her home in Saudi Arabia. But Indira's attention had been diverted elsewhere, to Jude's displeasure. 

                She surveyed Jude with a frown. "That dress is perfect—the color, the cut. But…" She added a measure of caution to her voice. "What are you going to do with your hair?"

                Jude wrinkled her nose. "What do you mean?" She held her hands out at her side. "This is it. This is what you get." 

                Indira tutted something inaudibly before she grabbed Jude by the wrist and dragged her up the nearest flight of stairs. "We can do better than that!" 

                After a considerable amount of effort, Indira seemed pleased. Jude was relieved. The woman had been tugging at her hair, twisting it, pinning it, doing God knows what to it, before frowning and taking it all down to start the process over. Finally, she stood back with a smile on her face instead of a frown. She clasped her hands together under her chin and beamed at Jude. "Lovely!" she said, ecstatically. "That wasn't so bad now was it?" 

                Jude looked at her apprehensively. She would have to take Indira's opinion—she wasn't exactly a biased observer of herself. Sucking in a deep breath, Jude turned to look into the mirror she'd had her back to moments before. The apprehension melted away as she studied the reflection. It really wasn't so bad, she thought with a weak smile. Indira had done a nice job, nothing too fancy and embarrassing. It was simple and elegant, she couldn't have asked for more. Her hair was no longer in the unremarkable bob she kept it in day in and day out: it was now off of her shoulders in a low twist that suited the cut of the gray dress she wore. She'd chosen the dress not out of any particular liking for the cut, the fabric or the color: really, the whole concept behind high fashion was completely lost on her. It was out of necessity that she found herself in gray satin—the neckline was high enough and the sleeves long enough. The color was of an unassuming, modest hue that, Jude hoped, would lend at least some obscurity to her. The last thing she wanted was to stand out tonight. 

                Happy enough with the plain, but elegant reflection, she let her eyes wander off the mirrored glass and onto the richly painted frame. She smiled. Indira would have a magnificent mirror in her chambers: she was beautiful and she lavished much attention on her appearance. And rightly so, she thought. Her mind wandered. It was strange never to have heard Indira mention a husband or fiancée back in Riyadh…or anywhere for that matter. Indira was as intelligent as she was beautiful. And for the life of her, Jude couldn't figure out what gives. But then, Jude was never forthcoming with such information herself. Maybe Indira knew something of the pain that Jude felt when she thought on Rhys. She missed him terribly. 

                "What's wrong, darling?" Indira asked casually as she bustled around her. 

                Jude let her fingers trail over the leaf pattern of the mirror's frame, lost in thought. Leafs: like the walls of the mysterious labyrinth of her dream. "Nothing," she said absently. Then she turned abruptly to face Indira. "Can I ask you something?"

                Indira shrugged and smiled. "Shoot at me." Jude couldn't help but find humor in that. Indira was always bungling common English expressions, even though her mastery of the language was flawless. 

                Jude furrowed her brow, deciding whether or not to speak. "Do you believe in the portent of dreams?" she asked hastily before she could chicken out. 

                A furrowed brow told Jude the question was most unexpected. "I don't get you." 

                "I mean," Jude clarified, "do you think dreams mean things? Like…of things to come, maybe…warnings?" She felt foolish. 

                Indira considered this for a minute. "It depends, I guess. Some of mine couldn't possibly mean anything—some very strange things I can dream up, I can tell you." She laughed. "This is a question, I think, for Professor Trelawney." 

                Jude scrunched her nose and Indira giggled once more. "I'd rather not ask her."

                "Why? Is there something bothering you, darling?" Indira asked, walking to her wide window and looking out on the bright sky studded with pearly stars. 

                Shaking her head, Jude hoped it was casual enough to defer the question. "No," she said, watching as Indira gazed admiringly at the stars. 

                Indira sighed like a lover. "Ask me anything about the heavens: the stars, the planets, their motions. But dreams? I'm afraid I haven't the imagination to invent meanings the way Sybil does." 

                The dream was better tossed aside for now, Jude mused, watching as Indira collected a few things from a table nearby. Jude's eyes widened in mock horror as Indira turned to face her. 

                "Now for makeup!" Indira sounded giddy, like Sabine and her friends, when they were all students here, on a Friday night in their dorm room, giggling over boys and painting each other's nails. They were wretched, Jude remembered, recalling the fact that on those nights in particular, she could be found in the common room well into the morning. 

                Jude shook her head emphatically in the negative. "Indira, I already feel like a freak. Let's just leave it at that, please?" she begged. 

                Indira frowned. "But it would be so much fun," she pouted. "Just a little lipstick?"

                Pursing her lips together and shaking her head once more, Jude refused. Turning back to the leaf-framed mirror, she gave herself one last appraising look. "This isn't me. It feels like I'm in someone else's skin altogether." She sighed heavily. "The sooner I'm back to just plain Jude Elliot, the better."

                The woman was silent, staring at the girl for sometime before she finally spoke. "I'm sorry, Jude. I didn't know it bothered you so much. I just thought we could have some fun with it," she apologized. 

                "No," Jude returned swiftly. "You don't have to be sorry for anything. You've made this whole thing bearable. I don't know what I'd do without you." A sweet smile put Indira at her ease once more. 

                Glancing at the clock on the polished desk, Indira smirked superiorly. "Well, you'd be late, for one thing."  

***

                "You are here finally, I see." McGonagall's clipped tones were the first thing she heard clearly as she entered the noisy din of the corridor. Indira shot Jude a penitent look before skittering off to join Professors Sprout and Vector in conversation at a safe distance from the visibly hassled Deputy Headmistress. "And now that you are here, I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me round up our Champions?"

                Jude shrugged. "Who are you missing?" She glanced over her shoulder and saw the usual suspects: Harry was standing next to a girl chatting animatedly to a gaggle of other girls. She was the spitting image of one of her students, Miss Patil. Maybe it was the same girl, she thought, although this girl seemed a little more audacious than the somewhat timid Padma she knew from class. Behind the two stood the scowling Bulgarian with…Hermione? Jude was amazed, but then checked her rude glances. Surely the poor girl was getting them all night. Of all people I should understand, Jude chided herself and looked away prudently, casually as if Hermione looked that stunning on a regular basis. The blonde French girl stood next to a tall, typically handsome boy who seemed very pleased with himself at the moment. Jude snorted. The girl was certainly aware of his good fortune. And behind them stood…

                "Where's Cedric?" Jude asked, turning to McGonagall abruptly. 

                Rolling up a sheaf of parchment, she tapped it against her open palm. "I was hoping you could tell me. We're already five minutes behind schedule. Could you just poke around in the crowd for him? I can't seem to spot the boy anywhere." McGonagall wiggled her fingers at the mass of students, indicating where it was Jude should look. She quickly turned away from her, informing the other, present, Champions of their instructions. Jude was willing to overlook the rude gesture, assuming McGonagall was still in a bit of a tizzy over the incident earlier that day, and set off to look for Cedric among the throng. 

                Poking past several couples in gleeful conversation with each other, Jude spotted Ron with some of his mates. A disgruntled Padma stood by him and played with her bracelet. Padma caught her eye and waved. Jude returned it a bit awkwardly and smiled. 

                "Ron, Padma," she ventured. Maybe they knew the elusive whereabouts of her prey. Ron nodded in her direction, yet looked at her oddly, as if something was horribly wrong—like someone had written on her face while she was asleep. She ignored it. She knew she must look like a circus clown to everyone. "Have either of you seen Cedric Diggory?"

                Ron shook his head and continued talking to the boys. Padma also shook her head disappointedly. 

                "I haven't seen him," Padma confessed. "But I did see Cho just a couple of minutes ago," she added brightly, in a conspiratorial tone. 

                Jude frowned. "Cho?"

                Nodding, Padma confirmed, "Cho Chang. She's Cedric's date. I saw her going up the east stairs." 

                "Thanks," Jude said, heading off in that direction. 

                At the top of the stairs, Jude blinked and stopped dead in her tracks. She'd found whom she'd sought…and quite a bit more. Cedric leaned casually against the wall just off the landing, his arms wrapped around a raven-haired girl. They were practicing the time-honored tradition of sneaking around school and snogging in uninhabited halls. Jude looked away and cleared her throat judiciously, making sure she had the kids' attention before she continued. She didn't want to startle them. 

                They both turned quickly, a furious blush rising on Cedric's cheeks. The girl, Cho, was giggling profusely. 

                Fighting to keep the smirk from her lips, Jude got straight to the point. "Sorry to, er, interrupt, but McGonagall is ready for you, Cedric. The other Champions are already queued outside the Great Hall."

                "Thanks, Miss Elliot," Cedric replied, grinning broadly. 

                Back in the throng of the crowd, Cedric now in place, Jude surveyed the students. They seemed, as a whole, to be enjoying themselves. One dour face she did catch, however. Malfoy wasn't book-ended by his thugs for once. In place of Crabbe and Goyle, a very pretty girl with an aristocratically upturned nose clung to his arm, chatting and using very exuberant hand gestures. She was surrounded by similarly animated girls. Malfoy looked mutinous, bored even. She looked away, but before her eyes left him entirely, she noticed a sly, mocking smile spread across his face as he noted her presence. She began to move in the other direction, but he'd quickly cut his way through the crowd and was at her side. 

                "Well, well, well," Malfoy smirked snidely, appraising his teacher. "You look almost presentable, Miss Elliot." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the stone rails of the grand staircase. Her retreat had not been swift enough. 

                Taking a deep breath, she pasted on a false smile and turned to her student. "And Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Malfoy, You look very nice yourself," Jude continued, trying her best to sound convincing but noting with a bit of satisfaction that he'd marked her sarcasm. In black, the boy looked like a priest—she wondered if he was at all aware of this. "Is that your date?" Jude questioned brightly, noting the piercing look he shot her as his smug composure faltered momentarily. 

                Scowling, Malfoy glanced over his shoulder at the girl still chattering amidst her friends. "Pansy," he spat a bit contemptuously, sighing as if his pride had been martyred to have had to ask any girl at that school in the first place. 

                Jude felt a twinge of regret for the boy. It must be difficult indeed to be such a devoted slave to your image. She smiled slyly. "Lovely girl," was her barbed reply as she watched Pansy take out a small mirror and examine her reflection. It didn't take long for the girl to smile, quickly satisfied with her appearance, and replace her mirror in her pocket. "You two seem perfect for each other." 

                Malfoy eyed Jude evenly. He said nothing, maintaining only a cold, hard glare. 

                Patting him on the shoulder, she blithely wished him a good evening and left him to scowl after her. She hurried to McGonagall's side as she gestured to her across the room. 

                "Yes, Professor?" Jude asked as she neared the woman, still reading sternly from a parchment, looking up momentarily every now and then. 

                "Madame Maxime has expressed substantial interest in Literature. Professor Dumbledore has requested that you join us at our table. That was your field of study, am I correct?" McGonagall questioned, noting the immediate skepticism on Jude's face. 

                Feeling the tension in her rise, she answered a simple affirmative and endeavored to keep her attitude and gestures neutral. Jude was almost certain that if Madame Maxime was to accompany the Headmaster, Karkaroff was sure to be there as well. 

                "Well, would you be so kind as help ease the burden of conversation for our guests?" McGonagall was staring over her glasses at Jude, demanding rather than begging that she concede. 

                "Yes, Professor," Jude relented dutifully, steeling herself up for one of her best performances in years. Pleasant, polite, interesting, witty, conversational Jude. She smiled reluctantly. A challenge. 

                McGonagall returned her glare to the parchment, reading over a list of some sort. "Lovely. Then it is settled. Madame Maxime will be seated to your left, and I to your right. I trust I don't have to remind you after your performance this afternoon? Decorum is of the utmost importance tonight." Her voice was stony. 

                Jeez, Jude wondered how long it would take the woman to forget that? It wasn't even that bad…just a little slip up. She murmured an affirmative and McGonagall nodded officially and bustled up to the doors of the Great Hall. 

                "Quiet. Quiet, please. Champions will enter first, followed by the rest. Please take a seat immediately." As she finished, the massive doors swung open to reveal a brightly lit, gleefully decorated hall, resplendent in deep reds, warm gold, sparkling pearl and crystal stars and icicles, festive garlands—every trimming imaginable. The amount of work the staff—namely Hagrid and Filch—had put in was something to marvel at. Jude was awestruck and couldn't help but allow a somewhat foolish smile of wonderment consume her distress. 

                As soon as everyone had taken their seats, Professor Dumbledore made a few cursory statements, officially beginning the event. Looking around, Jude mentally noted who was present…and then realized that Crouch was conspicuously absent, a Weasley in his place by Ludo who looked ridiculously giddy. She made a note to question Dumbledore about this—an absence at any other time would be no reason for alarm…but now? 

Dumbledore finished and Jude's attention was immediately drawn to Madame Maxime. "I understand you 'ave attended a Muggle University, am I correct?" she asked politely in a heavy French accent. 

                Jude nodded modestly. "Cambridge. I earned a degree in Literature, in fact." She glanced sidelong at Professor McGonagall, who was smiling, quite pleased, but pretended not to be listening at all to what transpired. 

                Dropping her fork, Madame Maxime dabbed her lips with her linen napkin elegantly. "You do not say! Why I am big fan of Literature." She pressed her hand dramatically to her chest and stared wide-eyed at Jude. 

                Chancing a glance, she noted Karkaroff listening intently to their conversation while maintaining the pretense of carrying on another. His eyes slid sideways suspiciously in Jude's direction a few times, she saw. It gave her an uneasy feeling that he was gathering information about her, trying to piece her together, figure her out. She stole judicious glances throughout the conversation, keeping an eye on the man. Somewhere behind her, Jude could hear Indira's bright laughter. Turning, she saw Indira engaged in conversation with Professor Sprout. Grudgingly, Jude returned to her own tête-à-tête with Maxime, wishing she could be with Indira and Professor Snape. 

                "What eez it that you enjoy ze most, Miss Elliot?" Maxime asked, excitedly sharing her interests. 

                Jude thought a moment. "Well, literature of the Romantic period mostly. Hugo, Dumas…Tolstoy." At the last word, she chanced a glance in Karkaroff's direction. The mention of Russian Literature of the Imperial Era was bound to grab his attention.  He was no longer pursuing his conversation, but bending his entire attention on her. "Dickens is one of my favorites."

                "Ah, yes. Hugo eez my personal favorite, but I am prejudiced. 'E eez our finest writer, in my opinion. Writing does not get better than Hugo." Maxime spoke with emphasis and grandeur. 

                Jude nodded, sincerely agreeing.

                "But it is all so clear-cut in the literature of that period, don't you think?" Karkaroff spoke suddenly. Still Jude had expected it. 

                Cocking her head slightly, a curious expression on her face she begged him to clarify. "How do you mean, Professor Karkaroff?"

                He smiled condescendingly. "Right and wrong, black and white. It all seems so formulaic. Good versus evil. Hero against villain. Perfect against corrupt."

                Jude frowned. "I do not think so, Professor. Take _Les Miserables for example. It is perfect against corrupt, you say? Valjean is a flawed hero—he is a convict, he stole bread. The villain is a Prefect of Police, a man of honor and with a profound sense of duty. It seems as if your philosophy is reversed." She finished with a superior smirk, but lowered her eyes modestly as McGonagall shot her a warning glare. "But I'm sure you had your reasons for thinking that way. Please." She conceded the conversation to Karkaroff. _

                He puffed out his chest importantly. "Well, remaining within your realm of example, take Dumas. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ owns one of the most righteous and profoundly pristine heroes. Edmond Dantes is everything a young man should be: ambitious, but not too ambitious, loyal to patron and father, devoted lover of virtuous Mercedes. The canon "good guy," to use a cliché. And he is on the crusade to bring about right, justice." He finished with a flourish. 

                Jude considered this for a moment. "Yes, I suppose. Dantes is the ideal hero. But he, too, is flawed. And that flaw only develops after he is imprisoned. He wishes to seek revenge on those who have wronged him, but after it is finally exacted, he realizes that it was wrong of him to have sought such ends in the first place. The story ends with a disillusioned hero who hardly knows himself, whose task has drained him of his noble righteousness. He is almost broken in the end. Not quite as black and white as you have suggested."

                McGonagall cleared her throat and tried to change the conversation. The two-sided debate had grabbed the attention of the entire table and everyone stared, caught in the strange tension of the words and expressions of the two opponents. McGonagall was despairing of a return to pleasant and idle words. 

                "But the villain—Danglars is your typical nemesis. Personal advancement is his motivation. And he is willing to sacrifice another man's life for his ends." Karkaroff was staring, unrelenting harshness in his voice, thinly veiled by civility. 

                Jude shook her head belligerently. "But you forget, Professor, there are four types of villains in this story: Danglars, whom you have mentioned, is indeed self-seeking and overly ambitious. A typical villain, as you have put it. But he is aided by three others, all of which represent a certain sort of vice, a particular villainous characteristic. Fernand is the jealous lover—passion draws him on to collaborate in Dantes' capture and imprisonment. Villefort is not, at first, a villain. A precarious situation leads him to choose that path. The choice is between his family and reputation or justice for an obviously innocent stranger. He chooses to protect his career and family's good standing. 

                "And then there is the greedy, enterprising tailor." At this pronouncement, Jude's eyes and expression turned accusingly on Karkaroff. "He was along for the ride merely for profit. He didn't want to ruin a man's life, but if it paid well, as Danglars promised it would, he could live with himself. But, funny thing though. While said hero languishes in prison, cultivating his revenge, the first three become successful, rich, powerful. The collaborating tailor, though, has endured misfortune after misfortune. And when Dantes returns, he prepares to reward the tailor for his friendship to him, even though he was minimally involved in his downfall. He is ready to forgive him. Dantes gives the tailor a valuable diamond that he immediately sells to a merchant, whom he then kills. Greed. That was the tailor's vice—not pride, nor jealousy, nor ambition." 

                Jude was pleased to see Karkaroff flinch. She smiled slyly. 

                "Professor, do you remember in which order they were punished?" The question hung in the air for some moments. 

                Glaring daggers at the insolent girl, Karkaroff grudgingly shook his head. "I do not remember," he said thickly in Russian-tinged English. 

                Smiling a bit regretfully, Jude knew she'd overstepped her bounds. McGonagall was furiously trying to catch Dumbledore's attention, silently imploring him to intercede. The Headmaster simply observed the conversation, his expression unreadable. Jude knew she'd catch hell for this later. Yet she decided to plunge in, head first. Screw caution. She'd had enough of tip-toeing around this man. Finally, he would know her mind. 

                "It doesn't really matter." She noted his shoulders fall with the release of tension. "But, greed was the first vice to be punished," she added as an afterthought, striking the blow. "Those guys always die first in books, in cinema…it's almost a standard. The foils, the ones who have little more stake in the dastardly plot than mere profit, they are always the first to go. Funny, though…no one ever seems to miss them much." Jude allowed a frigid silence to pass. She stared at Karkaroff for ages, gauging how her words struck him. His teeth were clenched, but he maintained a polite smile plastered on his face. 

                Jude broke into a wild grin, laughing. "You must forgive me," she said, turning to Madame Maxime. "I do tend to get a bit carried away by the subject." She sensed rather than saw Karkaroff's tension falter a bit. Truly, her words must have struck a chord with the man to have caused such anger in him. 

                "Do not apologize, dear. You obviously love your field of study. Tell me, do you teach zee same thing here, at 'Ogwarts?" Madame Maxime held a genuine interest. McGonagall had fallen into polite rapport with Karkaroff, his feathers slowly unruffled. 

                "No. I teach Muggle Studies here." She felt eyes on her. Karkaroff was staring in shock, although he quickly recovered and was engaged once more by McGonagall. Surely he had already heard? But perhaps he hadn't. Jude brushed it off. 

                A light waltz picked up in the background. Strings punctuated the one-two-three time in light, airy prose. 

                Karkaroff smiled brightly and informed them this was a Russian waltz. Jude could believe it—it spoke of elegance and opulence of that long forgotten world of tsars and grand aristocratic families. The St. Petersburg of the waltz era stood in stark contrast to the concrete-gray, bleak, joyless Russia of today. As Karkaroff stood in stark contrast to his starry-eyed remembrances of his lost world. It must be the idea he held to—the idea of Imperial Russia—for, she knew, Karkaroff was far too young to remember the Bolshevik Revolution. He, in all likeliness, hadn't even been born then. 

                Her musings were cut short as Karkaroff stood abruptly. "I cannot, in good conscience, allow such a wonderful melody pass in obscurity without a dance. Miss Elliot, would you do me the great honor?" 

                The shock on her face must have been apparent, for she felt McGonagall's sharp elbow connect roughly with her side. Jude blinked, startled, and stared blankly at the Deputy Headmistress. Her furiously cheery grin reminded Jude that it was her duty to be polite and gracious. She immediately spoke the opposite of her feelings and accepted. 

                Fighting courageously to keep the enraged blush from consuming her cheeks, she stood with the insufferable man and stepped into the midst of curious and mocking eyes. She could feel them, piercing, searching, laughing. She knew she was going to make a fool of herself, it was just a matter of time now. 

                But the Russian knew how to waltz, and he was fortunately a strong leader. It didn't matter what she did, he was in control. And he seemed to revel in that fact. She had the upper hand at the table…that embarrassingly telling conversation. That was his motivation for extracting her from their company. 

                She said nothing. And for a while he maintained the silence, allowing the arpeggios of the violins the monopoly on sound. As soon as it was apparent that there would be no embarrassing slip-up on Jude's part, attention for their dance waned and even a few couples joined them on the floor. Then he spoke. 

                "So you are the new Muggle Studies teacher here? Is this your first year?"

                Jude frowned momentarily and then simply answered the question. She would bide her time, discover his game, and then beat him at it. It had been child's play for her when she was a kid to best this guy. What made him think he posed more of a challenge to her now? That is, if he even recognized her. It was silly, really. She knew he recognized her. But why the charade? Why the pretense that she was unfamiliar? 

                "That is very interesting. And a graduate of a Muggle University? My, you have changed, Little Bird."

                Her lips curled into a cold smile. A pet name, almost forgotten. Everyone among the dissenters held that epithet for their Master's little spy. His Sparrow. They mocked her, but they feared her as well. 

                "As have you, Igor. Headmaster of Durmstrang? Tell me, whom did you have to blackmail on the Board to get that position? I can't imagine you got it on merit. And that is your usual method, am I right? Blackmail?" 

                She felt his grip on her hand tighten threateningly. But it was an idle threat; he knew it as well as she did. 

                "You don't fool me as you have, no doubt, fooled Dumbledore. I know who and what you are, what you still are, even though you claim to be reformed." 

                "And you. You don't even claim that. What secrets did you hold over them, huh, Igor? That was ever only your one strength, the only thing that kept you alive when you made enemies on every side of the fence. Very stupid of you, Igor. Very stupid." 

                His grip tightened even more. She only smiled viciously. 

                "Tell me: who is paying you to get to Harry? I know you're behind it. Who wants him dead, besides the usual suspect?"

                He flinched. "I don't know what you're talking about. You are the one behind it. You are still His little _shavala." He spat the word with as much malice as he could muster. "You never betrayed him. You have everyone fooled into thinking that you care only for that boy's safety. But you care only about serving your Master. You always have."_

                She smiled cruelly. She understood enough Russian to know it was a cheap stab. "Not up to your standard, Karkaroff. I thought you had a gift for bullshit." They continued to move around the floor, lost in their war of words. Jude was determined to find out what was up. He was scared, she could tell. But of what? Of whom? "You may have changed your suit, Igor. But you're still the same _govn'uk_ you've always been. You're only in it for the money, that's the way it's always been. Is someone paying you to get the boy, to kill him? Lucius Malfoy, maybe?" She watched, gauging his reaction. It seemed to speak of sincere confusion. He didn't know what she was talking about. Lucius wasn't behind this. "So what is it, then? You think that if you get Harry, Voldemort will welcome you back with open arms? Is that it?" 

                He flinched. Jude couldn't guess if it was because of the name or she'd hit a nerve. She'd gotten somewhere. 

                "During the war, you were a profiteer. Working for the Germans against your fellow Russians—not a good position to be in when Hitler and his regime fell, was it? The KGB has been on your tail ever since. You can't go back to Russia now, can you?"

                He looked mutinous. 

                "Even if you were brave enough or smart enough to slip past the KGB, there's the Russian Mafiya, which you've pissed off enough times to put a substantial hit on you. Very impressive, I must add. Your black marketeering finally paid off, but not in a good way. Russia is as good as gone to you. So you move to England, am I correct?" 

                Karkaroff said nothing, a stony expression replacing any emotion. 

                "You couldn't possibly conceive of earning a decent living though, could you? Your only talent was twisting arms—gaining secrets on anyone and everyone. Blackmail has ever since been your game. This set you at odds with the Ministry then, did it not? You blackmailed Jennings and got burned. But you had little elsewhere to run. You stayed and threw in with Voldemort. Stop me if I'm way off here…" 

                Still, he was silent. Her resolve hardened to move him. 

                "Under Him, you were able to ply your trade without hindrance, as long as you remembered your place. But you couldn't; compliance wasn't the way you played. Malfoy's ambitions drew you as it did others." 

                He faltered. "How did you…?"

                She smirked slyly. "I was his best spy. Of course I knew. You and that band of traitors were plotting to overthrow his reign of terror and set up your own. Under Lucius Malfoy. But you bided your time, waited for the Aurors, who were being tipped off, to finish Voldemort's forces, or, at least, weaken them. But, unluckily for you, he fell before Malfoy's plans could be solidified into something more than traitorous talk. The reign of terror was over and the last of Voldemort's supporters, even that band of dissenters, were hunted. You sold out. A few years in Azkaban and you were out. You made many enemies, too many. So, once again you left. To the Black Sea. To Durmstrang, as I now see." She stopped and examined her opponent. He looked unsettled. She'd just laid out his life, nice and neat, like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver for her audience. "But why did you come back? Not for some silly tournament. No. It's too risky even for a prominent figure like yourself." She said, smoothly mocking him. "He won't take you back, Igor. He doesn't forgive. He has no mercy." 

                But he did not flinch. "You will not fool me. My question to you now, if you don't mind me asking, is what do you want from me? That talk—what did you mean by the little lecture on villains? A warning maybe? A threat? Do you think you will be able to frighten me? I left England to begin a new life, away from this wretched island full of those who would see me dead. I was a small fish, inconsequential. What does he want from me?" His voice was tense, almost pleading. 

                She couldn't help but betray a little of her confusion. Either he was acting, giving the performance of his life, or this was for real—he really believed that she was still Voldemort's right hand and that she was targeting him. It was an act, she decided. "As far as I know, he doesn't want a damn thing from you, Igor. But you'll have to ask him that yourself. I haven't talked to him in thirteen years." She prudently excluded her brief encounter with her much altered Master in Harry's first year, just three short years ago. He didn't need to know nearly as much about her as she knew about him. 

                His hand clenched her own brutally hard now. She gritted her teeth and ignored the pain. "Leave. Leave this school," he hissed. "Leave me in peace! You won't get what it is you want from me. You forget that I have survived worse than some upstart little girl. The KGB, the Mafiya…all of the Death Eaters in England. Leave."

                Jude laughed maliciously. "I don't bow to anyone. Especially not you, Karkaroff. I am not afraid of you. Just try and make me leave."

                For the first time, he smiled. It was a cold, malicious smile. A fox that has cornered a rabbit. She fought to control her rapidly beating heart, forcing herself to calm down. He was stellar at getting information. She wondered what cards he held that she was unaware of. 

                "You have secrets just like everyone else, Miss Elliot. But only a few know them, regretfully." He leaned in closer to her. Grabbing her wrist, he brought her hand in front of her face. He examined the silver band on her wrist. "Interesting trinket, Miss Elliot."

                She jerked her hand from his grip. They had stopped their waltz and were staring maliciously at each other, the world having long ago ceased to exist. 

                "Everyone here already knows who and what I was," she spat viciously. 

                "Who and what you still are," he corrected. "But do they know what you did?" 

                Her blood ran cold. "What are you talking about," she said, endeavoring to maintain composure. 

                "That night. The night your Master fell. I know what really happened." He stayed her attempt to leave. 

                She laughed carelessly. "You are so full of shit, Karkaroff. You don't know anything."

                "You murdered James Potter; your Master didn't." 

                She froze. It wasn't possible. She swallowed hard, her head buzzing, a fuzzy mess that she tried to gain control of. She needed to think quickly, but her faculty seemed to abandon her. 

                Shaking her head, she finally managed a weak, "How in the hell would you know anything about that night? You weren't there."

                He nodded judiciously. "That's true. But I had the opportunity to speak to someone who was there. I ran into a very frantic comrade hours after the news had spread of our Master's defeat. Pettigrew told me some very interesting things." 

                Jude swallowed again. She couldn't breathe. This wasn't possible, because…because…

                "Peter wasn't there either. He's a lying son of a bitch. And you still don't know shit." Her answer was shrill and frantic. She was losing it. Everything swirled in a colorful chaos. She still couldn't breathe…

                "He was there. He had a…change of heart. Wanted to stop his Master from killing his friends, the poor bastard. But he got there too late—he saw you off his childhood buddy. I don't think he forgave you for that." Karkaroff was shaking his head mournfully, yet he was smiling triumphantly. 

                He stopped, frozen. She blinked, equally shocked. Apparently, he'd felt it this time as well…it wasn't just her. That twinge of acute pain at her wrist. He was calling again.

                Summoning up the last of her courage, she shoved Karkaroff away roughly. "It's not true," she shouted. Everyone's eyes were on the pair, but she noticed little beyond her immediate terror. This couldn't be happening. 

                Nodding toward the Headmaster, Karkaroff shrugged. "I could pass the word along to Dumbledore. We'll see who he believes." 

                "No!" she shouted frantically. 

                "Then leave!"

                Taking a calming breath, she beat her wildly thrashing feelings into submission. "Never," she hissed before she turned on her heels and stalked angrily out of the Great Hall. 

                Stampeding up the stone steps, she let her footfalls crack the silence of the corridors. Her anger had not abated as she reached her room. Slamming the door open against the wall, she saw Darcy jump to her feet. Ripping her cloak off of her chair, she beckoned the dog to follow. She was about to boil over and needed to blow off some steam before she exploded. 

***

                He was mildly intrigued to see Jude dancing. She didn't dance. 

                But now she was…with Karkaroff. 

                Glancing around, he noticed Sinistra, brow furrowed, staring as well. So this was odd not only to him. 

                Others joined them. Their faces were in stark contrast to the first couple. Jude looked stern and mutinous, Karkaroff looked haughty and superior. They were talking. He wondered what of. 

                After a short space of time, they were no longer waltzing. They were arguing hostilely in the middle of the room. It hadn't reached the point where they drew much attention, but it would soon come to that. He glanced over at the Headmaster. He seemed oblivious to anything transpiring elsewhere as he and McGonagall engaged Madame Maxime in deep conversation. Finally, he decided to intercede. People were beginning to stare. It was then that she shoved the large Russian hard and flew out of the room in a rage. 

                Striding over to Karkaroff, Professor Snape scowled at the man. "Igor, what was that about?" 

                He shrugged elegantly and smiled shyly. "She is quite unstable, your new professor."

                "She is nothing of the sort. Quit playing games, Igor. What did you say to her?" 

                "Nothing of significance." 

                "Igor, I told you. She isn't behind this. She isn't a threat."

                "Leopards don't change their spots that easily, Professor. She is not as innocent as everyone is willing to believe."

                "She is only as guilty as you are, Igor," Snape informed him in a clipped tone. "Or I, for that matter."

                "But how else could he know that I am here?" Karkaroff hissed, rolling up the billowing sleeve of his robe. "Why else? It is a threat…and she's behind it!"

                Professor Snape made an indignant reply. "Not only you, Igor. He hunts us all. You, me…her. She's as much of a target as you are. Maybe more." He fell silent as he cautiously looked around the room. Igor persisted with the conversation. After a vain attempt at quelling his less than prudent talk, Snape beckoned him outside. Igor followed, glowering.  

***

                It was biting cold outside. Jude wrapped her cloak around the gray satin, but still she froze. Her breath came out in icy white puffs. Darcy raced around in the moonlit snow. Expelling a tense breath, Jude willed herself to relax. It wasn't as bad as it seemed, she told herself. 

                Darcy bounded up to her, stopping just short of where she stood, throwing crystal snow into the air all around her. She couldn't help but smile. Darcy held a stick out for her to throw. Jude took it and threw it as far as she could. It nearly reached the edge of the forest. Darcy repeated the game over and over and Jude felt the tension melt a little as she went through the motions with a soothing rhythm. 

                She turned abruptly as she heard a sharp whistle. The dog bounded past her to a new figure coming down the castle steps. The figure took the stick from Darcy's jaws and held it teasingly over her head. As he strode over to her, the dog leaped around excitedly, she noticed the glint of silvery-blonde hair. She rolled her eyes and massaged her shoulders.   
                "Great," she muttered under her breath. 

                He tossed the stick and Darcy bounded wildly after it. He closed the distance between them. "And I thought this night was going to be hopelessly dull. Thanks for the entertainment, Miss Elliot."

                Jude huffed. "No problem, Mr. Malfoy." Her sarcasm was biting. 

                He pretended not to notice. "Karkaroff is an ass. He was around my father a lot before he left. I only remember him slightly. My father never had much to praise him about, so he mostly trashed him." 

                Jude smiled. "It was nothing." She answered his unasked question. It was really none of the kid's business, but she didn't feel like keeping up the biting tone. Her fury was spent on Karkaroff. "He was just trying to ruffle feathers and I let him get to me. It was a bad move on my part, I admit." 

                The boy laughed. "McGonagall will have your ass tomorrow."

                "Yeah, I guess." When Darcy came back with the stick, Jude handed it to Malfoy. "I don't really care. She never wanted me to teach here anyway. She and the entire Board." She couldn't guess why she was telling this boy anything. She was his enemy, he'd said so himself. 

                "I wonder why?" he said sarcastically, but the ice in his voice melted prematurely. He wasn't up to a war of words tonight. Jude wondered, "What gives?" She observed the kid. He seemed pensive, somewhere else. 

                "Where's Pansy?" she asked with a slight smile. 

                He snorted. "She was getting tedious. I think she's flirting with Terrance Higgs now. It was Marcus when I left. I think she's trying to make me jealous. I guess she doesn't understand that the person has to give a damn about her in the first place to be jealous."

                "Ouch," Jude said, leveling a scrutinizing glance on the kid. 

                "Don't worry, she's earned it."

                Jude laughed and tossed the stick for Darcy. Malfoy smiled. 

                "Your dog is nice. Where did you get her?" He gave the dog an appraising look. 

                "From a friend," Jude answered vaguely. 

                "Really? You have friends?" He grinned maliciously, then checked his attitude as he saw her drop her gaze to her feet, endeavoring to smile cheerfully. "Where is your friend now?" 

                She rubbed her neck. Was she really having this conversation? What the hell did a fourteen-year-old bully care? Still, she felt herself compelled to answer. "He's gone," she said cryptically. She couldn't keep the regret from her voice. 

                "Oh," was the only reply he gave. 

                Jude thought of a way to change the subject. Hearing a buzzing noise like a bee, she swatted impatiently and frowned. Wasn't it a bit cold for annoying bugs? 

                Malfoy was staring oddly at her. "You are crazy, aren't you?"

                She frowned. "Very funny, Malfoy. There was a bug."

                "Yeah, sure." He continued to stare, skeptical. After a while, he ventured a question. "Miss Elliot, why do you call everyone else in class by their first names, but you always call me Mr. Malfoy?" He wrestled the stick from Darcy and threw it again. 

                Jude furrowed her brow in thought. "I don't know," she offered finally. "I guess it's because you strike me as one who is used to every courtesy being paid you. I thought I was being respectful, or polite. Does it bother you?" 

                He thought on this for a moment. "No," he said after a while. "So, what did Karkaroff say? Was it about…You-Know-Who?" He was smiling slyly. He didn't want to change the subject. He was curious. That was the whole point of the conversation. Jude decided to level with him. 

                Sighing, she finally relented. "He wanted to know if I was still His servant. He thinks I'm behind Harry's name being put into the goblet. He thinks I'm trying to kill him for Voldemort." 

                Malfoy smiled. "Harry's a prat. He probably put his own name in." 

                Jude made a disbelieving gesture. "He didn't put his own name in. But I certainly didn't either." 

                "And does it bother you that Karkaroff thinks you're still loyal?" Malfoy asked appraisingly. 

                Jude looked at the boy discerningly. "You have an awful lot of questions tonight, Malfoy? Why do you want to know all of this? Are you feeling out your enemy?" It was meant as a joke, but his reaction spoke that he'd not taken it as so.

                He became rigid, cold. "Maybe. Everything is a conspiracy to you, isn't it, Elliot? You think I'm trying to get information from you for my father? He doesn't care about you, he's not afraid of you. Why on earth would he be?"

                Jude just laughed and shook her head incredulously. 

                "Look, I had no ulterior motives. My father didn't put me up to anything." Looking away distracted, he added, "He never would." 

                Jude was taken aback. There was a note of disappointment, of distress, although very faint, in that statement. She let it go. 

                Calling Darcy back from the edge of the forest, she gave him an odd look. Maybe she was wrong. "It's getting cold, Draco," she said. "You'd better get back up to the castle."

                He blinked, a look of startled surprise flitted across his face. He nodded and left without another word. 

                As Darcy slid to a halt by her owner, Jude looked over her shoulder. Draco was gone. She shook her head and made the same path back to the castle. 

***

                "It was nothing, Professor," she said, not even convincing herself. "He was just trying to upset me and I let him." She turned from the blank expression of Dumbledore to the stern looks of McGonagall. "I shouldn't have said those things I said at dinner. I will apologize if you require it," Jude finished. It was very late at night and she was tired and restless at the same time. 

                Professor McGonagall shook her head ruefully. "I daresay it was a bit uncalled for, but Madame Maxime was surprisingly entertained. You made quite an impression on her. Therefore," she sighed heavily, removing her rectangle spectacles and rubbing her eyes, "I will overlook it." 

                Jude nodded.

                "Thank you, Professor McGonagall. Will that be all?" Dumbledore interceded. McGonagall gratefully relinquished the conversation to the Headmaster. She left the room swiftly and wordlessly. 

                Dumbledore turned to Jude with an unreadable look. "I really am sorry, Professor. It was completely…"

                He held up a hand to stop her. She fell silent. "I have heard something very interesting tonight. Igor has informed me of something…rather distressing." 

                Jude nodded. She'd expected this. Yet her heart fell all the same at the grave tone of the professor. 

                "It is true, then?" 

                She nodded again. 

                "I think I understand that this was the subject of conversation just before you walked out tonight?" Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him. 

                "Yes," she managed weakly.

                He shook his head wearily. "It would have been hard to have told anyone such a thing, so, naturally, I don't hold you responsible. You were young. You only obeyed orders. And for that also I do not blame you. But you cannot run from this. You cannot."

                Jude looked stricken. "You want me to tell him?"

                "I think it is imperative that you tell him sometime. But not yet. He has much to deal with." 

                Jude nodded. "I will leave if that is what you wish. I can no longer be expected to protect the child of the man I murdered."

                "No," Dumbledore said emphatically, holding up his hand. "I do not wish for you to go. In fact, it is absolutely necessary that you stay. Things that even I do not understand are working against us. My trust in you has not been shaken, Miss Elliot. I still believe that you are the best suited to the task. You must continue to look after the boy. Now more than ever."

                She lowered her gaze and stood silently for a moment in thought. There was something else she thought he should know. 

                "It has happened again," she said, holding out her left wrist. "And this time, it was stronger. I think he's calling everyone back to him."

                Dumbledore surveyed her evenly. He then frowned and closed his eyes. "This is what I have feared." 

                Jude endeavored to gain control of her emotions, but she had to confess that she too feared. Looking back at Dumbledore, her face bore a pained expression. "But what if I cannot fight it?"

                  
 


	38. The Middle

Disclaimer: All characters, situations, etc. associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. Etc. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. 

Author's Note: A couple of things in this chapter—the _Magestirium Heresy_ is an idea completely fictional and contrived by the author for purposes expressed below. Historical information concerning this bogus event in magical history (I know, made up history, snore! But I can't help it) is actual and not contrived in any way. The Jews were actually expelled from England by Edward the First in the year 1290. My information comes from a very excellent historical fiction on England—the Salisbury area in particular. The book is _Sarum_ by Edward Rutherfurd and is actually a very good read, if you're into history. In this chapter, I have attributed the idea of the Magestirium to Mungo Hufflepuff, son of none other than Helga Hufflepuff. He is an original character borrowed from Tajuki's wonderful stories (and a soon to come tale on the Founders!), whose name is a bit borrowed from canon. Most names of Death Eaters listed in this chapter come directly from _Goblet of Fire_, although I have invented a couple and have given most bogus first names. Jean-Paul and Cordelia Lestrange, however, I have borrowed from Tajuki—her characters adapted from canon again borrowed from the same stories, her wonderful series! Check them out here: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=230886

And lastly, lyrics toward the end of the chapter sung by a character (I will not divulge here) are from _Lithium_, by none other than Nirvana.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Middle

'Hey 

_You know they're all the same_

_You know you're doing better on your own so don't buy in_

_Live right now_

_Just be yourself _

_It doesn't matter if it's good enough for someone else_

_It just takes sometime_

_Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride_

_Everything everything will be just fine_

_Everything everything will be all right'_

_Jimmy Eat World, The Middle_

                The tapping was steady and persistent. Knocking—someone was knocking at the door at…four in the morning. He grumbled and got reluctantly to his feet. The wooden floor was icy cold and bathed in a milky pallor from the half-moon peeking through the small window coated with the drab London grime. The knocking came again impatiently. 

                The door handle was cold beneath his fingers, brass and tarnished and bloody cold. He twisted it then stopped, mid-motion. What was it about being woken at an ungodly hour in the morning that made normally wary people to simply forget caution? He asked a bit tersely, even rudely, who was at his door. 

                The answer he received made him pull the door open quickly. It was Jude and she was seething with anger. He felt like a marked man. 

                "Well, this is a surprise—," he stammered, startled, before she cut him off abruptly. 

                She held up a crumpled piece of paper that looked like an unremarkable, very ordinary letter of some sort. He felt she thought he would recognize it. He looked at it curiously, gripped in her painfully tight fist. He hadn't the slightest inkling what this was all supposed to mean. This reaction seemed to upset her more. 

                "Who is she?" Jude hissed through clenched teeth.

                He frowned, utterly bewildered. He couldn't have been more in the dark if she'd been speaking Polish. Grabbing her by the arm, he gently guided her into the room and closed the door behind her. "Who is who, Jude?"

                She whirled on him and glared with barely controlled fury. "Don't play dumb with me, Remus. She had to find out from somewhere. And," she added, crossing her arms across her chest mock-casually, "since you two work for the same paper, I thought you might have tipped her off."

                Remus stood, expression blank, and simply marveled at how strings of plain English could suddenly become so incomprehensible to him. "What the hell are you on about?" he countered, finally voicing a bit of his indignant confusion. 

                "Rita Skeeter!" Jude raged, flinging her arms down at her sides like a child throwing a tantrum. "I got a letter from her. She seemed to know quite a bit about me, yet surprisingly, I know nothing about her."

                Not able to keep from breaking into an amused grin, he finally answered. "She's a reporter—not a very good one, mind you. But why on earth do you suspect what I think you do?"

                "You write for the same paper," she repeated with only a fraction of her former anger. "I thought…" She began but did not finish her thought. 

                "She's freelance, just like me. The one who wrote those horrible articles about Harry, actually. To tell you the truth, I've never even met the woman, Jude. And it seems to me you are accusing me of selling you out to a tabloid artist." He rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that, you know." 

                Jude dropped her gaze to the letter, a bit remorseful for having attacked him so harshly, but it was entirely possible…he was still a stranger, she argued mentally, trying to justify her thoughts. "So, you didn't…?"

                He shook his head. "But someone obviously did. What does she want? If she was thinking of doing a story on you, I doubt she would be asking your permission."

                Her forehead wrinkled a bit in thought, she looked at the letter then handed it to Remus, who looked it over intently. "Well, she definitely wants something from you. Information she thinks you have. And if you don't deliver, it'll be your story on the front page." He looked at the letter again and handed it back to Jude who was nervously biting her lip. "Are you going to meet her?"

                Jude nodded slowly. "I kind of have to, don't I?" she snapped even though she no longer blamed him. How could this woman, whom Jude had never seen before, know all of this about her? How did she even know she existed? Only a steadily increasing circle knew of her, and her former indiscretions…maybe another teacher? She was too tired to puzzle it out at the moment. "I wonder what she wants? Nothing to do with me, unless I don't give her what she wants. I'm second choice, then, to…someone else?" she questioned, more to herself than to anyone else. 

                "That would be my guess." Remus gestured for her to take a seat. She was obviously exhausted and running on adrenaline alone. "When did you get the letter?"

                She smiled dispassionately. "Just a few hours ago." Jude sighed heavily and looked at the letter. "I guess it was bound to happen some time or another. I mean, I couldn't go around with a story like this forever and hope no one would find out." With a smirk, she added, "At least if the woman's picking on me, she might leave Harry and his friends alone." And at a snap of her fingers, the crinkled paper of the letter ignited with an almost audible whoosh of orange flames. She threw the burning parchment idly into an empty wastebasket behind her. 

                Remus shook his head ruefully. "I hope that woman can handle what she's gotten herself into this time." He looked at her steadily and gave her a reassuring smile. 

                She glanced away first and stared at the smoldering ruins of Rita Skeeter's words. Feeling slightly terrible about having accused him of what she did, she strived to change the subject. Noting the untidy stacks of paper on the desk at her side, she looked up quickly. "So, have any of your articles made it into the paper? I don't really have a chance to read it every morning." 

                "Yes, actually. A few small ones. Nothing of Skeeter's caliber, mind you," he joked, "but _The Prophet_ liked them. Last one ran a couple of weeks ago."

                "You're probably less of a risk for _The Prophet_ than Skeeter, anyway." 

                "Thanks, I guess," he muttered sarcastically as he rummaged through the piles of notes and papers next to her. "I write them all under an assumed name, of course, my last, er, resignation having been a little more public than I'm used to. So I don't blame you for not having seen them." He finally finished his rummaging and held a stack of papers close to his chest. "Those articles, however, are nothing compared to this." He smiled, handing her the stack proudly. 

                She shuffled through the parchment, her eyes growing wider as the stack dwindled. 

                "Those are just my notes, mind you. I haven't even begun actually writing the piece." He waited anxiously for her to look up from the papers. When she finally did, her face was a mask of disbelief. "So, what do you think?" 

                Finding her voice again, she smiled, astonished and simply asked, "You're really going to do this?" 

                He nodded in proud defiance. "Yes, I am." 

                She glanced over the notes again. There were lists of facts, dates and, more importantly, names. It was the bare framework on a startling expose on the previous reign of terror under Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Here was every name, those who'd been convicted and those who'd gotten away. If he could pull this off, she mused excitedly, this could possibly hold back the flood of support Voldemort could muster if He indeed made a second rise to terrible power. 

                Finally, she looked up and smiled, handing him back the information. "You know, you could catch a lot of hell for writing something like this. I'm glad someone's finally got the nerve to do it."

                Taking the papers from her, he looked pleased with her reaction. "Thanks. It means a lot."

                As he placed the notes back on the desk, she glanced over at the small bronze clock on the table next to the unmade bed. It read four-thirty. She gasped and jumped up from her chair. "Sorry," she apologized hurriedly, "I had no clue it was so early, honestly. I'm really sorry," she babbled, heading for the door. 

                "Don't sleep much, do you?" he said perceptively. 

                She felt a momentary blush. No. The fact was that she didn't sleep at all. But admitting this fact was a completely different reality. Any normal person would be asleep at this hour. And she wished so much at the moment that she were normal…

                "Just stress," she lied weakly. "With this bloody Tournament, the school infested with people who would rather I were dead and all that…I just can't." She shrugged, and shoved her hands in her pockets. She was not about to mention that her insomnia was by no means a recent development. "The Second Task is set for February the Twenty-Fourth, by the way. Could you pass it along to Black for me?" 

                He nodded, still studying her. 

                She turned to go. "I should let you get back to sleep at least," she stated bluntly and pulled the door open a crack. Turning back halfway, she stopped without knowing exactly what it was that made her pause. Before she knew it, she was speaking almost unconsciously as if in a trance. "And I'm sorry about not making it for Christmas, or New Year's. I'm not avoiding you, if that's what you think," she added hastily. She just wanted to leave but something held her there, making apologies for not trying harder to be a better friend. 

                He smiled and set a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I know, you're just busy." It wasn't said in a mocking tone, but Jude couldn't help but wonder if there was a bit of justified sarcasm behind it. 

                "And sorry about beating on your door at four in the morning accusing you of betrayal. You must think I'm mental," she said a bit self-depreciatingly. 

                He laughed a little. "Don't worry about it, Jude. If you remember, Sirius believed me capable of much worse only a year ago."

                She smiled and then felt the expression falter and fail. Karkaroff's words came back with astounding force, almost knocking the wind out of her. Remus had never betrayed Sirius, or Peter or James. It was all her doing. And now Dumbledore, along with Karkaroff knew of this….and Peter. This confused her even further—why had he never hinted that he knew? Last year…the Shrieking Shack…he could have sold her out at the blink of an eye. But he didn't…it didn't make sense. But the angered Karkaroff had yet to make good on his threat, beyond telling her dirty secret to the Headmaster. Hopefully it would remain that way. But Dumbledore's words had been explicit—she had to tell him, and Black and, eventually, Harry. But the words shriveled and died in her throat. Eight days had already passed since her unpleasant encounter with Karkaroff, and yet the truth was still harder to reveal to these people who she'd become increasingly, dangerously reliant on. More time, she reassured herself. She had more time before she had to make it known. And it would get easier, she hoped. 

                She turned to go, but he held her back momentarily. Turning back to him, she noticed that his eyes had rested on a calendar tacked haphazardly to the wall, covered in his unmistakable scrawl. His lips twitched into an ironic sort of grin and he removed his gaze to rest on Jude. 

                After a moment of curious silence, he remarked simply, "Happy Birthday, Jude." 

                She blinked and frowned. "What?" 

                "January Fourth," he said pointing at the square marked with the number four and surrounded by his writing. "Today is your birthday." 

                "Oh," she replied a bit dumbly. It was odd, even surreal. The words hardly registered and she turned to leave once more, as if he'd never spoken at all. Then pausing, she added reluctantly, "How old would that make me?" 

                For all of her twenty-plus years, she'd had no recollection of birthdays, no marker on which to count her age. For all she knew, she was somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-five, but an exact date had never been in her possession. 

                He just stared at her, puzzled for the moment, before it melted into a sort of pitying curiosity. He'd never even fathomed that this small bit of her personality had been lost to her years ago. "Sorry, I forgot," he said cautiously. "Twenty-four. You're twenty-four years old, born on January Fourth, 1971." 

                Jude nodded absently and, without feeling, stepped through the door into the hall. She didn't get far before he closed the short distance between them and gathered her into a warm and comforting hug. She just stood there numbly for a moment before tentatively placing her hands on his arms. She felt him relax a bit and smile. 

                "You know, the last time I was allowed to do that, you were two?" he said lightly, letting her go reluctantly. She stepped back from him, torn between wanting to be as far away from him and the memories he brought flooding back—or the absence of memories—and wanting never to leave the safe and cozy embrace that she had been missing for twenty-two years. "Well," he said, feeling the awkward tenseness creep back between them. "I'll be seeing you soon?" he questioned. She nodded dutifully. "Don't kill Rita," was the command that put a slight smile back on her confused face as she took the steps away from the door two at a time. 

                "I'm not making any promises."

***

                The weeks marched by with little hesitation between them and the Second Task loomed ever larger and formidable on the not-so-distant horizon. Her eyes were drawn to Harry and Cedric more than she liked to own to when she was in the Great Hall. Yet they both looked fine—both eager and ready for whatever lay ahead of them. Unconcerned. Jude knew that it was as much of a downfall to take things lightly as it was a relief. It could cause a problem. But Cedric…she couldn't bear to warn him what danger he might be in for simply being in close proximity to Harry. He would resent the kid, maybe, and it would ruin the Tournament for him, Jude could see that easily. But was it worse to let him walk blindly into danger? 

                Harry undoubtedly knew he was in danger—the kid dealt with it often, and Jude admitted, handled it admirably well. It was a reprieve to see him having fun and enjoying his friends. He probably knew better than to take things lightly, Jude reminded herself. And for all his appearance of a normal fourteen-year-old-boy, he had years of experience, years of burden that he shouldn't have. But she knew he was stronger for it. Watching him in the corridor, en route to his next class, the usual wingmen at his side—Ron and Hermione—she wondered if she and the boy were really that different at that age. She smirked and watched the kids disappear down the hall. The fact was that they were as different as night was from day, as east was from west. All her troubles she'd brought on herself. His were dealt to him as a baby, inherited from others. He was resilient and she had barely made it. 

                Shaking herself from her pointless ponderings, she turned back into her classroom, surprised to note that everyone had arrived right under her nose—as she'd been lost in thought and oblivious to the world around her. This had been happening too often, she chided herself. How could she manage to keep her promise and look out for Harry if she wasn't there half the time? 

                Forcing herself into the here and now, she addressed her class. Malfoy, she noticed, wore less of his accustomed smug smirk as of late. She couldn't pinpoint the exact instance when he'd become less of a hassle and more of a valuable contributor to her class. She brushed it aside as inconsequential—at least it was an improvement from the beginning of the year.            

                "Picking up the point made by Padma yesterday, let's discuss the issue of isolation further," she suggested equably. There was no dissent, so she continued. "Padma, would you care to pose the question once more for us?" 

                Padma beamed and then spoke in a clear and slightly haughty manner. Jude noted Malfoy roll his eyes in a minute gesture of distaste, but he made no sound of protest and continued to listen as the girl spoke. 

                "Yesterday, I wanted to know why Muggles separated themselves from our society in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries? What were the benefits they saw in isolation from the wizarding community that prompted them to perpetuate a complete isolation that eventually led to the total estrangement of both worlds?" She looked around the quiet room, before adding a safe, "in theory, at least?"

                "Well," Jude took up the baton when it looked as if volunteers would be scarce at first. "As we discussed yesterday, the magical and Muggle worlds coexisted in peace—in a sort of symbiosis in England for hundreds of years. No distinction. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, after the founding of Hogwarts, there was a split in belief, a schism that seemed insurmountable. The Magisterium Heresy. There was a great debate over the place of magic within religion—specifically Christianity. Mungo Hufflepuff, founder of the Magestirium—the council on Magic at the time, a Ministry of the age, so to speak—deemed that magic had a vital and integral part in every aspect of life including religion. Being a monk, Hufflepuff drew much support from both sides, magic and Muggle, and many clergy endorsed his findings. But with successive plagues ravaging Europe, especially England, at the time, a scapegoat was needed. In times of strife, there has to be someone to blame—History has taught us this much. Typically, the finger would be pointed at the Jewish population, but thanks to Edward the First," Jude continued sarcastically, "they were expelled from England in 1290. Now during times of turmoil, the finger was pointed at those with magical abilities. Magic changed swiftly from a gift to a curse, thought to be the cause of God's scorn on the people of England—and, in a growing trend, Europe as a whole. The Church followed suit about fifty years later, and since magic is much more easily hidden than an ethnicity or a belief, they couldn't fully expel them. So they settled for outlawing the practice of magic as an affront to the Church and to God. This the Magisterium fought hard to reverse before it was outlawed as an institution…creating, the Magesterium Heresy. 

                "Those with magical abilities learned the value of secrecy, and within a century, magic was only a storybook idea—something old ladies feared and children whispered about. Still, the Heresy remained on Church record in startling detail. In 1452, at the urging of the Bishop of Canterbury, the manuscript recounting these strange and, in themselves heretical events were burned. This effectively completed the separation. For their safety, those who did not wish to give up their unique abilities flocked together and isolated themselves with magic beyond the reach of the Muggle world that had convinced themselves that such people no longer existed. It has been this way ever since." 

                Jude fell silent and looked around. A few of the students had reverted to doodling with quill on parchment and a few more gazed up at her with glazed eyes. Jeez, she thought smiling sheepishly, since when did I start to sound like Binns? She had gotten a bit involved in the historical implications of the question and sought to bring the topic back to a more lively and engaging track. "So, Muggles shunned those who were different, which culminated eventually in the denial of the existence of magic. They, in a sense isolated themselves, as Padma stated. But witches and wizards either complied to Muggle demands or retaliated by counter-isolation—closing themselves off from a world that rejected them as heresy and eventually myth."

                A hand shot up. Jude smiled. It was Neville. "But there still exist Muggles who believe in magic, right?"

                Jude nodded, immediately conjuring a memory, half-forgotten in the back of her mind. She thought of teens dressed in black, wandering through the warren of tents at the Midsummer's Fair in Cambridge. They certainly believed in the existence of magic—among other things—even though they were most definitely Muggle. Then, as quickly as the memory had come unbidden to her mind, she pushed it aside, feeling the tense, bitter sensation in her stomach. Memories of Cambridge, of him, were too painful, too costly. She refocused her attention on Neville and forced herself to give him an honest answer. "Yes, there are some who believe in magic, but they are by far in the minority. Muggles have dealt with this by simply stigmatizing those who challenge the mainstream."

                "Meaning…they think those people are nuts," Malfoy chimed in happily. With a smirk, he added, "They probably are."

                Jude laughed a little. "Yeah, most think they're nuts, or at best a little unrealistic. Science has prevailed in the Muggle mind and if they can't understand the mechanics behind a force, such as magic, it might as well not exist." Staring pointedly at Malfoy, she decided to try something that could give her beneficial insight, or could blow up in her face. "Draco, what do you think about this denial and isolation imposed after the Magesterium Heresy? Do you think it was self-preservation, or stubborn, willful removal of magic from the Muggle world?"

                The boy blinked and then simply stared at her blankly for a moment. He seemed to falter ever so imperceptibly at her address. It was true—she just realized she'd used his first name instead of the formal address he was used to receiving from her. It was not intentional, but he seemed not to mind at all. In fact, he appeared to be pleased with the casual title. Thinking carefully and speaking with more care, Draco began to divulge his view on the matter. To Jude's surprise, it was not haughty or superior, but honest and telling. 

"Muggles have always been the majority, even in England, the country with the highest magical concentration. If the situation was reversed, if the wizarding community had the upper hand in terms of numbers, I think the results would have been the same. Had catastrophes such as plague troubled our numbers to the extent it had theirs, I believe we would have sought to blame them in the same manner…and to exact retribution in the same manner. Hell, if it had been up to me, I would have done much worse than that." He smiled slyly as a few shocked gasps swept the room and a few giggles punctuated the sound. His remark had elicited reaction as he'd intended. In casual thought, he nodded. "I think it was a matter of self-preservation, not some sadist's revenge against those who have by those who have not." 

                It was a good answer and Jude was pleased that he seemed to believe in what he said. Still…

                "Ernie," Jude called to the boy in the back of the room, "if you had the chance and the power, would you go back in time and change the decision?"

                The boy smiled and nodded judiciously. "I think I would. The separation between the two could have exacerbated the problem between magic and non-magic…could have made it more apparent, more glaring. I don't know, maybe if their had never been a split, Muggle-born students might have faired a bit better with the other students at least."

                "Please, MacMillan," Draco drawled lazily. Now this was the Malfoy Jude was familiar with. "That would be the ideal solution to you wouldn't it? Just change the past because you're feeling a little insecure today. A million things would be different because of the, oh, I don't know…seven hundred and fifty years of contact! Come on, just think about it a little, will you? The world you know, the one you envision Muggles skipping hand-in-hand with wizard, wouldn't be here. It would be unrecognizable. You may not even have existed with the years of Muggle taint in the wizard blood—it would be even worse than it is now, if you can imagine that. Hey, who's to know…they could have killed each other off two hundred years ago in some mass cataclysmic war. That would make this discussion almost as pointless as it is now." 

                Ernie was about to speak, but refrained from his comment as Jude spoke. "Draco, I asked a hypothetical question. I didn't expect the answer to be practical. But I got the answer I was looking for nonetheless." She surveyed the kid. The question was a trap. She had been bating him. The dogma, the ideals of pure blood still remained, however they were dampened in their extremity. She sensed he was reaching for another point or idea, but had just reverted back to the comfortable litany of racism and purity. She was pleased. 

                "Well, now that you have the floor, what do you think?" she asked Draco neutrally. 

                "There's no point in discussing this really, but if I had the chance, I wouldn't change it. Who's to say what was best—coexisting or isolation? The situation works now, for the most part, so why change it?"

                It was a bland statement, fraught with a hopelessness that hid well beneath the surface. A futility that was unbecoming of Draco's active stance in her class. She was saddened a bit to see the flames of his conviction falter. The turmoil of beliefs within the boy was almost palpable to Jude. There was a time she'd had that same struggle. Hers, however, had occurred in a blinding flash of realization, a jarring jolt of reality. His, she perceived, would be a long and laborious struggle. And eventually a toss-up. 

                She dismissed class, watching Draco as he mimicked the rest of the students, gathering his books and heading for the door. The urge to pull him aside and badger him into her confidence or make him angry with her was strong, but she fought it. The last thing he needed now was someone pushing his buttons. Beside that, she had somewhere she needed to be.

                Everyone was gone and Jude was about to follow suit when she was stopped suddenly at the classroom door. Moody stood directly in her path, blocking escape from the room. Great, Jude thought, another stirring lecture on loyalties. "Move aside, Moody. I don't have time for this shit today." She stepped closer, scowling with impatience but he didn't budge. She frowned her disapproval. There was no way she could move the grizzled old Auror by force of strength. She relied on force of will. Placing her hands on her hips, she settled for glaring belligerently at the man. 

                In a flash, he'd seized her left wrist and held it fast. Complete surprise was not a comfortable feeling for Jude and she quickly became incensed. The old man was asking for it and he was about to get it. "Move aside," she warned again through gritted teeth. 

                "Aw, lass, now is that any way to treat an old friend…a veteran of the same war—albeit on opposite sides?" He twisted her hand painfully, jamming the sleeve of her sweater up to her elbow. The silver of the bracelet seemed to wink and glint malignantly, threatening to divulge her identity. But it was no secret to this man, she knew. So what was he on about…what did he want?

                "I'm no friend of yours," she taunted, hoping to lead him into revealing his aims. "Never have been. So if this is another one of your rant sessions about how I've always been on the wrong side…"  
                He twisted her wrist harder and she bit her lip, fiercely determined not to make a sound. Raising a grizzled, rough hand, he touched the silver and smiled cruelly. "I know he calls for you. He's been calling all of his followers. Karkaroff, Bagman, Snape…you." 

                She clenched her teeth, but did not answer with a taunt of her own. 

                "Funny thing, though. Karkaroff, he's running scared. It wasn't hard to get him to talk."

                His weathered fingers moved over the clasp, finally making the decisive motion, removing the band. "Question is, lassie, what does e want with you anymore?" He eyed her suspiciously and calculatingly. The Moody she remembered was thorough, to be sure, but quick and precise. Now he seemed manipulative, searching, stalking like a cat, slowly encircling the prey instead of making the daring leap for it right away. He had been one of her chief adversaries and she knew his methods well. He seemed altered though, through age…or caution. The Dark Mark burned black on her pale forearm, undeniable. But she was denying nothing. 

                Still he searched. "You're planning something, I can feel it," he hissed close to her ear. 

                She snapped to attention and faced him ruthlessly. "What do you want me to tell you?" she spat venomously. "That I'm the one trying to kill the boy? That I'm still Voldemort's right hand?"

                The shuffling of feet coming to an abrupt halt mere paces away made the rest of her indignant speech die on her lips. Moody and Jude's heads whipped around to face the sound. 

                "Oh, God," Jude gasped. "…Neville!"

                Neville stood stock-still, staring in horrified shock at his teacher and the livid brand on her arm. Jude looked on at the boy despairingly, not trusting herself to speak, not daring…

                Regaining his self-possession, he looked up to her face, blinked, hopelessly bewildered, before he fled down the hall. She called after him frantically, but Moody held her fast, deriving some semblance of pleasure from her shattered composure, relishing her distress. Garnering all her effort, she managed to muscle by the man, grabbing her silver bracelet from him with angry force, and ran down the hall in pursuit of her student. She had to explain…she had to tell him…

                He was nowhere in sight as she rounded the corner. She heaved a heavy sigh and let her head slump forward, and cursed quietly. Still, unable to piece together what the boy might have seen or heard, how long he'd been there, all the particulars that only Neville could fill in, she headed to the only person she knew who could set this whole fucked up situation to rights. She hoped against hope that Dumbledore was in his office.

***

                A round, sullen face poked through the door cautiously. Jude felt the nervousness in her stomach flutter into action. After she'd burst into his office railing wildly about Moody and her inevitable resignation, the Headmaster assured her that everything could be put to rights, but she would have to let Neville in on her secrets. Not all of them. No, just the ones concerning him and his family. 

                She never wanted any of this to happen. But it seemed as if her fears were being realized in a quick and fearsome succession. 

                "Mr. Longbottom, please," the professor said kindly, beseeching the boy to sit. He obeyed, but sat close to the door in a squashy and slightly dusty armchair, casting apprehensive and betrayed looks in Jude's direction. She felt them like a hundred pinpricks. "I believe you may have a few questions for Miss Elliot."

                Neville glanced cautiously between the two, obviously torn between speaking and remaining silent. His voice was small, quiet, thin. "I saw…I know what it means." 

                Dumbledore looked from the boy sitting nervously in the armchair to Jude. She stood fidgeting by the window, her shifting stance giving her the appearance of a trapped animal. The professor was obviously calling on her to voice what the boy could not or would not say. She sighed. It seemed she had to tell this story quite frequently in the past few years. It didn't get easier with practice though, she thought ruefully. But Neville's dejected, deceived demeanor prompted her to be completely frank with him, to tell him everything…to make it better if she could. 

                "It's been…over thirteen years…since I was…" but she couldn't finish the sentence. He wouldn't even look at her. She endeavored to get the better of herself and brave whatever it was she sensed would come of this. Forcing her voice to remember its purpose, she struck down a different path, hoping to gain some semblance of confidence. "I ran away from the orphanage where I was raised at the age of…six…or seven, I can't really remember now. I came to London. I had nothing, no one. And He found me, gave me a place to stay, something to belong to." 

                He looked down, examining his shoes with little interest as she spoke. At the last few words, he looked up sharply, tensing before dropping his gaze once more, returning to the bland subject of his shoes. 

                Swallowing hard, she continued. "Thirteen years ago, I was shaken from my daze…something happened to make me…betray Him."

                Neville was staring unabashedly at her now, brow furrowed in concentration. He seemed to have a million questions, thoughts, accusations swimming just below his stricken façade. Finally, he ventured forward. "What would make you turn on him? Betray the…the person who took you in?" 

                "It doesn't matter," she answered quickly. Dumbledore made a slight movement that caught her by surprise. He'd been standing on the periphery, not interfering in the conversation for a second before these words had summoned him. In an instant, Jude knew his wish. He didn't want her to keep anything from the boy. She had to tell him. 

                The window caught her reflection. She could no longer look at her student, as she spoke the words, sung her own condemnation. The landscape beyond the castle was much easier to focus on than the angry and hurt expression diffuse over Neville's face. "I killed a man," she said, slightly surprised by the numbed, cold and sharp tenor of the words. She felt detached from it, like reading a novel aloud—surreal and empty. "The man I killed was James Potter."

                The words left her before she was aware of it. Without feeling, she pressed on. "Harry's father. It was simply an order and I followed it. His mum ran with him, but He followed. I tried to help her, but…then something happened and it was over. I took the baby out of the house before it went up in flames. It was the least I could do for him. I still see that night every time I close my eyes.

                "For the seven years after that, this was my home." She'd been blunt, maybe harsh but she couldn't quite gage it. This story was her—it was like explaining away a scar. Still, she was amazed at the detached, aloofness she could maintain while relating the one cataclysmic event that had wrecked her life—like the doctor that spoke in quiet, reverent tones, making comforting gestures to her and Lex as he'd told them they'd just lost their best friend, her only anchor to a life that was better. Remorse, she reasoned, should be the tone to affect while recanting her secrets, her sins. But she didn't want to put on a charade, especially not now. It was no longer an option. 

                "I haven't told Harry any of this." She looked down at her hands, still fidgeting. "He knows what I was, but not what I've done. In fact, no one really knows except the Headmaster and you. I know I haven't really the right to ask anything of you but…"

                "I won't tell anyone," Neville said abruptly, but not unkindly. It was a reluctant bit of forgiveness. There was still something bothering him. It was a moment more before he spoke up. "Did you…er…know everyone who worked for him? Did you know who was on his side or not?"

                It was an odd question and it took Jude a bit by surprise. But she answered honestly. She did know. 

                "When…when You-Know-Who was finally finished, why didn't you tell the Ministry who to look for? There were still some out there," he choked out, returning his eyes to his shoes. 

                A sick feeling crept up on her. She knew where his thoughts had headed. A deep breath was insufficient to calm her. 

                "Mr. Longbottom, I believe you would like to know why Miss Elliot, while possessing the names of Death Eaters still at large, did not denounce them…possibly deterring what happened to your parents?" Dumbledore interceded. 

                Neville brushed a hand across his eyes quickly and nodded. "If they had been caught before…and she knew."

                "I did, Neville. No one was prepared to believe me, not the Minister…no one," Jude managed weakly. 

                "I believe there is something I must show you, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore intoned, retrieving a largish looking metal dish from his desk. Jude knew what it was. A Pensieve. Neville needed convincing and Dumbledore had already guessed the only way to offer that proof. She watched from the window as the professor poured a silvery liquid into the bowl, shimmering as the light caught the pearly liquid. Taking the boy's hand, Dumbledore and Neville stood over the bowl, transfixed. They were deep inside a memory now. And Jude had a good guess as to the content of that preserved thought. 

                _She sat on the wooden bench next to the Headmaster, swinging her shoes that were several good inches from the ground and biting her lip nervously. So, this was a courtroom. She'd never been in one before. An official-looking man beckoned to her and she looked to the professor. He nodded and she got up from the bench, making her way tentatively to the man. He was wearing the same uniform-looking robes as the two other men standing by the door. She stared up at him and he shoved her through a door behind a wooden railing and a dias with a gleaming wooden lectern. Dragging her feet, she looked back at the professor. Dumbledore smiled reassuringly, reminding her that he was right behind her. She wouldn't go into the room alone. _

_                A very serious man stood and shook his hand, Dumbledore returning the gesture civilly. The Headmaster called him Mr. Crouch. He looked boring…and stern. Like McGonagall, Jude thought. _

_                The boring man spoke as if he were in a hurry to move things along. "Honestly, Professor, I don't think her testimony will be admissible. But it would be advisable to question her nonetheless. Minister Jennings has advised against it. Still, it would be a good thing to get the names she has for us, I guess."_

_                The official wizard who'd beckoned her into the room showed her to a seat facing the boring man and a slew of other people, all armed with quills and parchments. Dumbledore took a seat next to them. Two more uniformed wizards stood by the doors. _

_                Jude sat and stared at the man called Crouch. He turned to her and favored her with a depreciating smile and an unenthusiastic air. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, is that all right?" he asked blandly. _

_                Jude nodded, folding her hands over her black robes, feet swinging nervously, inches from the floor. _

_                "You were in the service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for three years. Is this correct?" _

_                Another nod. _

_                "In those three years, you must have met a lot of people. Do you remember the names of those people? Any at all?"_

_                She looked to Dumbledore before she nodded this time. _

_                "And will you tell us those names?"_

_                Jude pressed her lips together into a thin line, seeming to give this much thought. Voldemort kept a zealous secrecy among his ranks, no one was aware of the identity of most fellow followers at their sides. Some select few were aware of the identity of a small group, but only one person besides the Dark Lord new everyone by sight…and by name. She didn't want to tell…_

_                Dumbledore told her that this may save yet a few more lives if everyone involved was caught and held responsible. Yet she'd not been held responsible. It still didn't seem fair to her. But it could be something more than just fairness at stake. They earned this, she reasoned. _

_                "Well?" Crouch said, raising an eyebrow impatiently._

_                She stared for a moment at the ground. There were a lot of people staring at her and she didn't like it. _

_                "Dolohov," she said in a hollow voice. _

_                "I'm sorry?" Crouch said, pretending that he hadn't heard her, prompting her to speak up. Jude gritted her teeth. She didn't like this man. _

_                "Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, Roger Avery." _

_                "Avery," Crouch said, looking up sharply. "Avery is an upstanding citizen, by anyone's standards. Are you sure of this?"_

_                She furrowed her brow, a bit perturbed at the censure. Of course she was sure. She nodded. _

_                "There's also Julius Nott, Michael Moon, Steven Travers, Troy Mulciber," Jude continued, finding it harder than it seemed to sort between who was still alive and who had already been killed or captured by Aurors, "Jean-Paul and Cordelia Lestrange, Ludo Bagman…"_

_                A general murmur went about the room as she said that name, almost an electric shock. Hushed words were exchanged between the people who'd been staring at her rudely just moments before. They were doing it again. Only now they didn't seem to harbor fear or resentment in their eyes…no, they were looking at her as if she were crazy. _

_                "Ludo Bagman is a world-renowned Quidditch player, you know that, don't you?"_

_                Jude remained quiet and still. _

_                "This cannot possibly…" Crouch said, shaking his head and making slashing marks with a quill over his parchment. Apparently her list was being edited. _

_                "Any more?" he asked briskly after a few moments of tense, charged silence punctuated by scandalized whispering. _

_                She took a deep breath. Might as well…_

_                "Dale Donovan, Daniel Crabbe, Gerald Goyle, Walden Macnair, Agustus Rookwood…"_

_                Crouch slammed his fist down on the table with a loud thud. He was glaring at her through a mask of rage. "I will implore you to take this seriously, young lady. These are people's lives you're messing with. Rookwood is no Death Eater. He works for the Ministry, as his father has before him. Loyal family. He would never…"_

_                "He was a spy inside the Ministry. Our informant."_

_                "That's enough," Crouch bellowed, but Jude continued to shout over him._

_                "Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew!"_

_                "Ludicrous, simply impossible. Pettigrew was killed by Sirius Black two weeks ago. This is quite a story you expect us to believe, Miss Elliot. A fine, upstanding citizen and head of the prominent wizarding family in all of England and a dead man! Well, we thank you for your cooperation," he bit off sarcastically and nodded curtly._

_Jude narrowed her eyes at the man in front of her. He was gathering up his papers, preparing to leave the room. She couldn't guess what made her say it—anger, frustration, pure malice. But instead of remaining silent, leaving her scant list uncompleted, she spoke. "Bartimius Crouch, Jr."_

_In a swift and precise motion, Crouch stopped and turned sharply to face the girl staring with stony features back at him. He said nothing before he gathered his list and stalked out of the room, glaring momentarily in Dumbledore's direction. _

_                Jude sat, gripping the sides of the wooden chair with white-knuckled fists, grinding her teeth and staring after the man, seething with anger. It was a spiteful and malicious thing to do yet she did it with little regard to feeling. Denouncing a son to a father came surprisingly easy to her. Another may have hesitated to give such news so frankly. It would have been a kindness of sorts to remain silent, but she had never been taught to be kind. In her mind, he deserved the shock the news gave him. She knew that it was a long shot that she would be taken seriously. He hadn't believed a word she'd said and he'd mocked her. . _

_                As the rest of the watchers filed out of the room, many didn't hesitate to toss their parchment into the bin by the door, an open denial of the truth and an affront to her personally. But if they thought she cared, they were wrong. It stung, but she knew this was her lot—she'd bought it with the black mark on her arm. No one would really believe her again, never take her at more than face value. Every trust gained would have to be fought for. _

_                Dumbledore's cool fingers prying hers from the iron grip she'd unconsciously clamped on the chair brought her out of her dark thoughts. He took her hand and they Apparated. _

                Neville straightened up after what Jude estimated was five or so minutes. Dumbledore soon followed. 

                Jude bit her lip, trying in vain to gage his expression, but Neville remained closed, silent and reserved. "I'm so sorry, Neville." It felt inadequate even as she said it. 

                To her great surprise and immense relief, he nodded dully. 

She shifted from foot to foot, not knowing exactly what to say next. "I don't blame you if…well, I'm sure it would be alright with the Headmaster if you withdrew from my class, since he's not allowing me to resign," she said, a smile tickling the side of her mouth as she looked to Dumbledore. He was unmovable on the subject. She would not be leaving on any account. 

                "No!" was the swift and resounding reply Neville gave. Then he added, more moderately, "I don't want to leave the class. It's my favorite."

                "Really?" she couldn't help but ask, delighted by his words. 

                He nodded shyly. 

                "Well, as long as you're comfortable staying…oh, I'm so glad, Neville. You're one of my best students." Jude felt a wave of relief wash over her. She hadn't lost him after all. 

                "Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore said suddenly, commanding both of their attention. "Today you have learned many things about many people. I must ask you not to speak of this to anyone. All will be dealt with accordingly in time. But secrecy may prove to be of the utmost importance. Can I rely on you to keep our confidence?" 

                "Yes, sir," he nodded gravely. 

                "That is all I ask then, Mr. Longbottom. You may return to class," Dumbledore finished and retreated behind his desk, clearing the Pensieve and returning it to its place. 

                The boy turned to go, but glanced over his shoulder one last time at his teacher. With her arms crossed over her chest, staring out the window with a frown tugging the corner of her lips down, Jude did not note his curious stare. He was gone before she turned around.

***

                "You're late," a clipped, singsong voice chimed from a booth by the door the moment she stepped through into the Three Broomsticks. Jude turned immediately to see a middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed glasses staring pointedly at her. Jude stood where she was and looked the woman up and down before she let a smirk replace her frown. The woman known as Rita Skeeter was more of a caricature than a person—the very image of someone of her career and moral fiber. A fraud, a hack, a joke. Jude took the seat in front of the woman with more confidence than she'd come with. This would be a walk in the park. 

                "Lovely to meet you, too," Jude said bluntly. Rosmerta sauntered over to their table and, after a few minutes exchanging friendly greetings with Jude and a frigidly civil one from Skeeter, asked if she could get anything for the two. 

                "Currant Wine," Rita said sharply, her glare having not left Jude for one second since she'd arrived. 

                "Your usual?" Rosie asked, surveying Jude and concluding that the situation definitely called for gin. 

                "Yeah," Jude said blandly, watching as Skeeter removed a large quill and stack of parchments from a faux alligator bag. "Better make it double, Rosie."

                "Right-o," Rosmerta chirped with a knowing glance at Jude. 

                Skeeter was organizing papers in front of her. "Well, now that you're finally here, I'm glad you've finally seen reason and have decided to cooperate—," Rita schmoozed before she was cut off most ungraciously. 

                "I have agreed to nothing, Skeeter. And quit whining about me being late. It's not my fault you've felt the need to drag this farce out for an entire month. Why the wait, huh? First letter in January demanding I meet you at a place to be named by you…later. Why wait till the middle of fucking February?" Jude was staring steadily at the woman in front of her. 

                Rita smiled an oily smile, the kind usually reserved for politicians, lawyers, and used-auto salesmen. "Just thought it was only customary to give you a bit of time to think things over."

                Jude laughed dryly. "There's nothing to think over. You're a hack and you need someone to give you information. You know, real journalists do something called investigating."

                Rita maintained the car-salesman smile, but something sly, something cunning now lay beneath the surface. "Oh, but I do investigate. How do you think I found out who you are?"

                "Blackmailed it out of someone, probably," Jude spat contemptuously. 

                "Close, but no. Not this time at least." It was clear to Jude that she loved this. That would change. "And don't call people hacks, dear. It's not polite."

                "About as courteous as splashing someone's life around as if it were entertainment," Jude replied acidly. Rosie came back and set the drinks in front of them then scurried away as quickly as possible. Jude fingered the glass of clear liquid as Rita watched her.

                "Oh, now dear, you know it doesn't have to be that way. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

                Jude narrowed her eyes at the insipid woman and drained the glass of half the contents. She wasn't about to bend to some conniving rag reporter's whim, but she was curious nonetheless. "What do you want to know?"

                "The truth about Igor Karkaroff," Rita announced, watching Jude greedily, anticipating the story she was about to unfold. 

                "Is that all?" Jude replied, unimpressed. She could have guessed that this was the way it would go. Karkaroff was a big fish—a well-known name. She, on the other hand, was a nobody…at least to the majority of Rita's readers. That meant that Rita had not delved too deeply into her past. Jude was relatively safe…for now. "Well, Igor was a Soviet circus clown who made his money by trading government secrets with the Americans…"

                Jude watched as Rita's quill quickly took down her words, in a convoluted and trumped-up style—not really what she'd said at all. She tried not to laugh as Skeeter looked up abruptly from her parchment. She narrowed her eyes dangerously as Jude tried to suppress another giggle. 

                "Listen here, missy," Rita hissed at the girl across from her. "If you think this is a joke, it could easily be your name in the paper. Don't think I…"

                "My name? Don't be ridiculous, Skeeter. Only a handful of people know my name. I'm not worth writing about, at least not what you know anyway." Jude drained the rest of the first gin in front of her. 

                "I know plenty," hissed Rita. "I know you were one of them, a Death Eater, a minion of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I'm sure that would be interesting to the parents whose children you teach."

                Jude didn't quail at this. "The Board who approved my appointment at Hogwarts already knows. Dumbledore knows, the staff knows. It's not exactly breaking news, Skeeter."

                "But the parents…"

                "Don't you think it odd," Jude interrupted the insufferable woman, "that only a few people outside of Hogwarts know who I am? There's a reason for that, Skeeter. It's not by accident that my life is a secret."

                Rita Skeeter slammed both fists down on the table hard and glared malignantly at Jude. "I don't think you know who you're dealing with."

                "And I don't think you have any _clue_ who _you're_ messing with, Ms. Skeeter. Because if you did…"

                "Are you threatening me?" Rita gasped dramatically. 

                "Do I have to?" Jude asked blankly, without the caliber of drama conjured by Skeeter. "Look, Rita. I'm going to give you some advice. You won't get anything from me, so go ahead and print your fabricated fairytale about me. But you'd better get your facts straight. If not, I'll have your job for it. And if I don't like what you've written, I'll simply throw the article away…"

                "Well, that's very noble of you," Rita spat caustically. 

                "And I'll find you," Jude finished matter-of-factly. "You have an inkling of what I am. But, from the look of things, you have absolutely no clue what I'm capable of." Jude finished her drink and rose from her seat. Heading for the door, she glanced back at the gaudy reporter. "If I were you, I'd write about something else. If not, I look forward to seeing you soon." Without another look back, Jude left. 

***

                _The air was cold, very cold, but still. Crisp, crackling with the electric feeling of something in the atmosphere, Jude walked on, slicing through the dense, cold, charged air. Green leaves rose up all around her, blocking out everything but a small sweep of deep indigo-black, studded with pure white pinpricks. Stars. It was night, yet the scenery seemed alive with color, not muted by the low light of night. Her hand trailing the leaves, thick and waxy leaves, broad and weighty. It was a hedge…a tall, elegantly manicured hedge. Perfect walls all around her of the glossy green leaves, leading away to the right and to the left. Ahead, the way was clear for several feet, but halted abruptly at another wall of the same vegetation. Jude took a step forward toward the wall of leaves, feeling the soft grass on her bare feet. _

_                As she neared the wall, she noticed that it met with the wall on her left at a sharp, ninety-degree angle. The wall on her right stopped ten feet short of meeting the same wall, forming a bending path, forcing her to turn right and continue on. It was a maze. She followed. The air was cold, but she was not. She knew the air was cold not by sense, but by a simple knowledge that it was so…like knowing that the ocean is salty without ever having visited the seashore. An intellectual knowledge. _

_                The path continued to bend in on itself at square angles, meandering and winding back again, the same leafy expanse to her right and left the entire time, punctuated only briefly by breaks, leading to other green corridors in the vegetation. She did not turn into any of the side corridors, sensing always that something was ahead, not to the side, or behind. Always ahead, lead on by the charge in the air and the surreal drive to find something she was not aware she was looking for in the first place. Another twist, another bend. Jude stopped suddenly, inwardly satisfied for some reason that she'd ended up where she'd intended to be. _

_                A shadow in the grassy path before her prompted her to look to the right. There was a break in the leafy wall, leading off into another wildly snaking corridor of greenery. In the gap stood a tawny colored creature. The silky, flax fur gliding over the graceful, cat-like movements of a feline—it was a lion. But, no, Jude corrected her errant thought. It wasn't a lion entirely. The head was not framed in a thick mane. Rather, a woman's frank and purposeful face stared back at her from a border of intricately woven braids of the same flax color as the silky fur. It lounged in the lazy, yet ever-watchful manner of the Great Sphinx Jude had seen in books standing guard over the Pyramids in Giza. Jude froze, transfixed by the beast-being, intent on speaking yet not daring to do so. _

_                "You seek something," the great lioness-woman spoke, her clear, resounding voice vibrating the still, electric air. "Something lost?" it asked, flicking its tail with languid purpose. _

_                A nod was all Jude could manage in reply. _

_                "But you do not know of what you search for?" _

_                "No," Jude answered weakly. _

_                "Something of great importance. For you and for another." The Sphinx blinked, her eyes were heavily lidded as if weary of her post. _

_                "But where…"_

_                The Sphinx growled low, a rumbling hum that intoned a mild censure for her interruption. "Ask not that question. For you already know the answer."_

_                A riddle. Riddle. The Sphinx only spoke the language of cryptic questions. Jude was frustrated. Still not knowing what she searched so earnestly and intently for, she felt that her time was running out. She needed to find it fast. The Sphinx was only slowing her down. _

_                "How do I know the answer when I don't know what you're talking about?" she yelled at the woman-beast, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. _

_                The Sphinx rose from her careless, lounging stance and stood to her full menacing height. The low rumble of a growl was louder this time, more prominent in the thick, cottony silence. "You already know the answer," the creature repeated amidst the angry growls. It stood over her for a moment and then turned on its softly padded feet and stalked away down the deep green shadow of the corridor she guarded. _

_                Green, thick and waxy leaves remained. Downy silence drowned the echoes of the beast as it rounded the corner in the maze. She stood alone once again. Looking behind her, in front of her…the paths were the same. She didn't know whether to go backward or forward. A ringing in her ears was the only sound she heard, coupled with the sound of the Sphinx' words. The cold, stinging and prickling air made the words sharper. She already knew the answer._

                Throwing her hands out as if to stop herself from falling a great distance, she was startled to feel the familiarity around her. It was her own bed, her own pillows. She was in her own room—not a foliage-clad labyrinth with riddle-speaking creatures impeding her quest for…she couldn't remember. The bare threads of the dream were already slipping from her grasp. She was breathing heavily now, trying with all her might to recall it. Nothing was coming back to her. It remained in fragmented, puzzling pieces. This dream was always the same, but it was coming to her now with frightening clarity and frequency. 

                In the wash of moonlight Darcy's eyes glinted as she watched her master rise shakily from her bed and wrap herself in her robe. Heading for the door, Jude allowed the hound to pass through in front of her before she left, the door snapping closed behind her. Patrolling the halls, Jude thought, might calm her down. The dream she chalked up to nerves. The Second Task was tomorrow. But there was something still—she felt she should have gleaned something from the dream. The monster had said something, but she couldn't remember. Shaking her head, she resolved not to think on it any further. The fact that this dream was a vague apparition, not of a past experience as every other dream had been, caused her to give more weight to its portent…pretended or otherwise. She didn't really even believe in dreams having meanings. 

                She walked further through the silent halls, Darcy following and every now and then darting off to search a shrouded corner. Silence gave way for a moment, Jude thought, to a sound. She strained to hear it above Darcy's loud sniffing along the ground. It was music, faintly floating on the cool, undisturbed night air of the castle. Whether the source was close or far, Jude couldn't tell. She quickened her pace, striving to still the sound of her feet on the stone floor. Closer, she heard the combined sound of a guitar and a voice and…_Nirvana_?

                "Sunday morning is every day, for all I care. And I'm not scared." 

                In a small nook off of the hall, there was a barely noticeable break in the stone masonry, just big enough for one person to slip through. Winding, narrow stone steps rose from the floor behind the passage. Jude followed them up, knowing exactly where they led. The castle was riddled with secret passages and small, tucked away crannies just waiting to be discovered. Jude couldn't remember in what year of school she'd discovered this one. 

                Halting just inside the doorway, she placed a hand on Darcy's head and commanded silently that she be still. Shrouded in shadow, she looked into the small room, tucked away and secluded from the rest. Forgotten by most…even her, but someone was now making use of it in the small hours of the morning. Pale moonlight melded with warm candle glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A lone figure sat in the middle of the room, leaning over a guitar, adjusting his fingers, trying different chords every now and then. Jude listened, mesmerized by what she was hearing…by what she was seeing. Intent upon his guitar, the player hung his head letting his pale hair catch the silvery moonlight as it flooded in through a small window. It was one of her students, she was astounded to realize—it was Draco. 

                A small smile pricked the side of her mouth as she stood in the darkness listening. He played remarkably well, she noted wryly, and had a voice that reminded her a bit of someone. Her heart sank as she listened. He sounded just like Rhys. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear him again and it brought the familiar, aching feeling back to her, throbbing in her chest. A constricting, tight feeling that was always there. It was just easier to ignore it sometimes more than others. Just a year and a half ago, he was with her…

                She bit her lip, hoping to control what she was fast fearing was beyond her. Hot tears threatened, stinging her eyes and she couldn't breathe. Blinking, she dispelled them, beating them back viciously, and took a deep breath, turning to leave. Before she'd pushed away from the wall, however, the musician looked up suddenly then frowned. 

                "How long have you been there?" he asked, his voice infused with sufficient scorn and contempt. Darcy jumped to her feet, recognizing the voice as the boy who'd thrown sticks for her Christmas evening, trotting over to him. A grin played at his lips as the dog came to him. He set the guitar aside and held out a hand to her, rubbing her ears. 

                "Not long," she managed to answer after a moment's pause. "I was up…walking the halls with Darcy. I heard…" she stammered, gesturing to him. He paid her only minimal attention, reserving most for the dog, or so he engineered it to seem so. "You play well, Draco. How long have you…?" She bit her lip and looked down at her feet after it had come out. "I'm sorry, it's not my…"

                "Not your business, that's right," he said blandly. He looked up quickly and saw her step back a little, head still down. It was enough to make him feel slightly bad for snapping. He let a few moments pass in awkward silence. "Two years," he said succinctly. 

                She looked up, surprised. "Wow. You sound as if you'd played for longer than that. Do you practice often?" She smiled and shook her head. The questions just came out, one right after another, and she couldn't help but be curious about his odd pastime. She didn't expect an answer. 

                He expelled an agitated breath and left Darcy to explore the new space. To her surprise, though, he answered. "Every night, almost. Well, when I'm in school."

                Jude smiled wryly, stepping further into the light of the room, still careful to keep to the walls. She didn't want him to feel she was intruding, when she in fact had. "Aren't you afraid someone will find out…Filch, I mean." 

                "Nah, he and I reached an…er…agreement years ago," Draco smirked. "He's not telling." He looked at her suspiciously, picking his guitar up from the cold floor again. 

                "Don't worry. Secret's safe," Jude reassured. "Does your father know?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask." 

                Draco shrugged. "Why not?" he consented blandly after a bit of thought. "No, he doesn't, actually." Then narrowing his eyes, he asked caustically, "Why? You're not going to tell him, are you?" 

                Jude smirked. "Yeah, because your dad and I are such great friends." 

                "Still…" Draco continued, suspiciously. 

                "No, Draco. I promise I won't tell anyone," she placated. "If…you play something for me." She raised her eyebrows and smiled at the boy conspiratorially. 

                "Really?" Draco asked, furrowing his brow, a hint of pride lacing an ample amount of apprehension. "It's crap, you know."

                Jude shook her head. "Not what I heard. Didn't know you were a Nirvana fan," she said, slyly grinning. 

                "Yeah, well." He placed his fingers, ready to play, yet bent over the guitar in thought. Drumming his fingers on the smooth wood, he pressed his lips together. Suddenly he smiled, raising one eyebrow artfully. "I got one for you."

                She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest, watching as he brought his fingers down over the strings once, striking an unmistakable chord. Jude smirked and nodded her head. The last time she'd heard this song, it was in Rhys' voice. Swallowing, fighting against the lump in her throat, she endeavored to remain unchanged, disaffected. 

                "Hey, Jude," he sang. 

                "That was written about a chap, you know," she said incredulously, hoping that her voice hadn't faltered as she'd feared it had. It was agonizing, but he shouldn't have to know that. 

                He simply shook his head at the comment and pressed on. 

                Jude stood, the wall being her sole support, drowning in a hundred uninvited memories of him, of Cambridge, of Adda. She wondered what it would be like if he were still here with her, if anything would be the same, different, wonderful, terrible. She tried to recall if anyone's voice had struck her in such a way before, if anyone's sheer presence had affected her the way his did…

                Most of all, she wondered if he still loved her…still hated her. But then, she knew he was gone and so this wondering, this remembering didn't matter. Whether he still loved her at all or truly hated her for what she'd done to him, it was obsolete. 

                "Was it really that bad?" Draco asked, startling her. 

She jumped a little and then shied at her reaction. Forcing herself to give him her full attention, she apologized weakly. "No, it was wonderful, Draco. It's just the last time I heard that song…You remind me of a friend is all." 

He stared at her unreservedly, discerningly. She looked away, examining her hands, fidgeting. "Is this the same friend who gave you Darcy? The same chap?"

She sighed heavily and nodded reluctantly. "Yes. He played the guitar as well. You sound a bit alike." 

"He died, didn't he?" Draco said matter-of-factly, jarring her a bit. "You said, 'He's gone,' but what you really meant was 'He's dead.'"

She frowned. "When did I…"

"After the Yule Ball, remember?" he clarified a bit tersely. "I can tell. He's dead." 

The room was spinning, she couldn't breath, and she held out her hand to catch the wall. Hearing it was another matter for her, especially hearing it discussed so dully, so clinically. "How did you know that," she said just above a whisper, reminding herself not to react harshly…that he was just a kid and that he didn't know anything about it.

"The way you talk about him. You said 'he played,' past tense."

She nodded. The pain, tense and constricting in her stomach, was unbearable. "Yeah, I guess I did say it like that," she said with a smile that felt more like a grimace, hoping that he would change the subject or that she would gain the strength to leave. "Hey, Draco. You don't think we could change the subject, do you?" she ventured, the chill of the stone against her had the only feeling in her body. 

"Okay," he said shortly, a bit put-off by her serious tone. "I was just trying to make conversation. You don't like talking about him, do you?" he commented archly, smirking at her. 

She shook her head.

"You must have liked the bloke an awful lot to make you act like such a sorry sod at the mere mention of him," he said, strumming the guitar idly. 

She expelled a deep breath and laughed half-heartedly. "Yeah," she consented with little enthusiasm. She called Darcy away from the opposite side of the small alcove. Pushing away from the wall, she surveyed the boy as he played absently, an amused smirk fighting for dominance on his face. With no other recourse, she reverted to her teacher-and-authority tone. "You should get some sleep soon, Draco," she ordered dispassionately, turning to head back down the narrow flight of steps. She felt no anger toward the boy surprisingly enough. However, she blamed herself completely for the way she felt currently. It was her fault to intrude on the boy, to heap her guilty conscience on him and then snap at him for showing an interest, however sardonic and mocking that interest may have been, in her eventful past. She had only herself to blame. 

Draco looked up at Jude as she turned to go. "I'm sorry, Jude. I didn't mean to be a prat for once. I guess I can't help it." He didn't sound remorseful, but Jude knew he was trying to be. 

Jude paused and stared at him. She answered Draco honestly, no more or less than he deserved. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Draco. It's me." She patted Darcy at her side, feeling the weariness of countless nights of interrupted sleep weighing down on her. "Thanks for the song, though."

***

Midday. And it was cold. February Twenty-Fourth. The Second Task. 

Jude's nerves threatened to tear her to shreds. Moody had stuck to her like glue the entire damn day, hassling her more than normal. She watched the water tensely, as if she could make it part with her eyes. Underwater. The Second Task took the Champions underwater, for Christ's sake! Jude wondered whether everyone and their Uncle Joe was involved in the conspiracy to do Harry in. Dumbledore seemed to think it a splendid idea to have the Champions undergo a challenge of this fashion. And what's worse—it involved even more innocent students. And she couldn't see a damn thing that was going on down there. 

She'd strongly cautioned Dumbledore, presenting her misgivings in a very rational manner…for about five seconds before she reverted to ranting wildly about all that could go wrong. Of course he listened to her points one by one as if her opinion concerning Harry mattered, and then proceeded to do the exact opposite. Now not only were Harry, Cedric, and Krum down at the bottom of a bloody lake, but Ron, Hermione, Cedric's Cho, and a little French girl waited for them…unconscious. And she couldn't see them!

At least someone was sharing her anxiety. A few minutes ago, Fleur, the Beauxbatons Champion, emerged like a bedraggled mink from the lake screaming about some gridylows and crying. She knew her sister waited for her at the bottom of the lake and time was ticking down. Madame Maxime was by her side trying to calm her, telling her that the time didn't matter, that her sister would be fine. But the girl would have none of it. She continued to sob and pace by the lake's edge. 

The others, Jude assumed, were doing fine. Yet she mimicked the girl, pacing like a caged tiger on the shore. Harry, Jude noted at the beginning of the Task, looked confident and as the whistle was blown, and ate something that looked utterly repulsive. Professor Snape, who now stood behind her, his eyes following her manic motions with apprehension, informed her sourly that it was gillyweed. He'd been fuming ever since. 

Cedric had executed a Bubble-Head Charm, the same as the French girl, yet no gridylows had snagged him as of now. Now. It was twenty minutes into the Task. Nothing. Not a ripple. Jude glanced up at the Judges. They looked unconcerned, bored even. Karkaroff glanced at her less since the Yule Ball. Hopefully, he'd finally put two and two together to figure out she was not in league with any dark lord, especially not Voldemort. But still he saw her as a threat and maintained a nice distance. 

A half an hour had now passed. Dumbledore had assured her that only a select few knew of the task ahead of time. Bagman was one of them. Jude looked up at him now. He seemed excited, nervous and cheerful. But unconcerned of any danger. Jude was not worried on that end.  Dumbledore himself knew of the Task since the idea was envisaged. He wasn't telling, Jude knew for a fact. And Ludo Bagman. Jude had already checked him out. Nothing since he'd been acquitted of involvement in the Death Eaters all those years ago. A gambler, but that was nothing new. He'd lost his zeal for a fast-paced life of crime. Betting against goblins was all he had the energy for these days. 

Jude ran through the possibilities in her head as the time wound down. Forty-five minutes. It was getting close. Who else was there? Maybe they weren't among the line-up Jude had in front of her for the last two tasks. Maybe it was someone on the outside somehow weaseling their way in. Or maybe it had all been a fluke? Nothing really to get excited over—perhaps some kid played a joke on Harry and was just having a laugh at the kid's expense? 

Fifty-five minutes. There was a ripple on the surface, or it could have just been her imagination. Jude watched intently as the surface seemed more disturbed, more agitated. She was right—it was something. Cedric, in fact, with Cho. She watched as the students trudged out of the water, shivering. The crowd cheered. Jude didn't look away from the water's shimmering surface. More ripples. Jude hoped that it was another person…Harry.  And it was another person, she noted with some relief. It was the Bulgarian kid, Krum with Hermione. 

An hour. It had been an hour now. Jude bit her lip and watched, not daring to blink. 

The water stilled and settled to its undisturbed mirror sheen. 

Jude turned swiftly to Professor Snape. "How long should gillyweed last?" she asked tensely. 

He looked at her steadily. "An hour, maybe a little more," he said. She knew he was being optimistic for her sake. 

The gillyweed would be wearing off any time now. She looked to Dumbledore. He was watching the water as intently as she had been. It still glistened in the sun, smooth and stagnant. She held her breath. 

A tickle at the surface caught her attention, but soon it faded with a few ripples into nothing. 

And the crowd waited, watching. 

She released her breath and smiled, finally. A head poked above the glassy water sending ripples enough to be unmistakable. It was Harry and with him, Ron…and the little French girl? 

So that's what had taken him so long. Jude shook her head. Bloody Gryffindors. She almost had a heart attack because Harry was playing the noble sodding hero. The crowd seemed to eat it up though. The judges gathered in conference with Dumbledore and numerous screeching merpeople. It appeared that even though he'd come in past the allotted time, his chivalric performance was noted by a few of them. Karkaroff looked less than pleased, though, and noted it in his score after loud and cacophonous words were exchanged between Dumbledore and a merman…or mermaid…she couldn't tell. Jude wasn't really paying attention. She watched as Fleur ran to her sister, shaking and crying, and wrapped her arms around her. She watched as Ron socked Harry on the shoulder and berated him for coming in last. She watched as Harry gratefully listened to Ron's mock-lecture with a smile. 

The Second Task was over. She could breath again. At least until the final task, she thought. But she was willing to push that to the back of her mind for now. Sirius would be expecting word from her as soon as possible on how it had gone. And for once she had good news to tell him. Harry had tied for first place with Cedric.


	39. Third Time's A Charm

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. Any recognizable dialogue is from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ and is the property of Rowling as well. 

Author's Note: The very, very minor character appearing (in mention only) in this chapter was inspired by The Calling's _'Adrienne.'_

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Third Time's A Charm

'What I'm needing now is some sweet revenge 

_To get back all that I lost then_

_I gave you all I had to give_

_But I could never reach you_

_Adrienne, I thought I knew you _

_Once again, you used me_

_Adrienne, I should have left you _

_Long before you used me, used me up'_

The Calling, 'Adrienne' 

                "A maze?" Jude turned quickly from the window, gilded by the setting sun, the orange light giving her a harsh and fiery outline. Her expression was a curious mix of confusion, apprehension and outrage. "The Third Task is going to be a maze?" She turned and looked out the window again. The flat, grassy expanse that had been the Quidditch pitch was now planted in jagged, meandering bushes. The scene conjured a feeling in her of a foreboding déjà vu. 

                "Yes," Dumbledore replied simply from behind his desk. "Hagrid planted them yesterday. In a month, they should be a good bit taller." His eyes glinted impishly under the half-moon spectacles. "But you do not seem to approve," he added sensibly, noting her visible agitation. 

                She watched from the window as five figures milled around the shrubs. Immediate recognition was possible even from that distance: it was the four Champions and Ludo. Narrowing her eyes, she watched Ludo gesticulating excitedly as he explained, barely noting the words Dumbledore spoke to her. The last statement struck her though. She whirled around swiftly and glared. Not caring anymore about deference for his title, authority, position, she let him know what she thought. 

                "Glad to see you're still keeping up the pretence at least." She raised her voice, her hands clenched tightly in fists. "You haven't given a damn about what I think since this Tournament began! The Lake and now…this!" Throwing a hand back toward the window, she gestured to the maze. "Last time I couldn't even see the kid I was supposed to be protecting—that you told me to watch out for! Now he'll be somewhere behind twenty-foot ruddy bushes! Of course I don't bloody approve!" 

                He was staring at her evenly. Standing and placing both of his hands flat on his desk, he continued to hold her icy glare. "We have had our students' safety as our first and foremost concern for the entire Tournament, Miss Elliot. You know I would never compromise…"

                "How can you be so blasé about this, Professor?" Jude railed. "Ever since the beginning of the school year, I have felt Him—He is stronger now. Karkaroff has felt Him, Snape has…You may think that it's not that big of a deal, but…I know to what lengths He will go to get Harry. He's been okay so far, I know. But it's not because we have been extra vigilant. No, it's because He wasn't trying. He's biding His time, Professor. And you're playing right into His hands!" 

                Dumbledore was still watching her, listening calmly. "I understand your misgivings. But I assure you that I have done everything to assure Harry's safety. That is why I asked you here. Now that you know what the Third Task will entail, I must ask of you a final favor." 

                Jude frowned. Her harsh words hadn't ruffled him a bit, his calm, stoic composure still in tact. It was like nothing had happened—that she had not grossly breeched etiquette. 

                "During the final task, I have asked trusted members of the staff to act as a patrol at the perimeter. Of course, I have told Ludo it is necessary simply to aid any students who might come upon a difficulty. I have asked Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Moody. And, of course, Hagrid. My mind would be greatly at ease if you would join them."

                Jude of course would accept. However, instead of voicing her approval to Dumbledore, all she could spit out was "Moody!" The word contained all of the pent-up anger and frustration she owned. 

                "Yes, Moody will be there." 

                She let it go. Enough had already been thrown back at the professor today, Jude surmised. Moody had made a difficult task all but impossible. He undoubtedly would voice his concerns over her proximity to the maze, still ridiculously clinging to his assumptions that she was up to no good. It had taken all of her will power not to end him the day he'd hassled her in front of Neville. If he came between her and her duty to Harry, she would not be accountable for her actions. Still, she guessed Dumbledore already knew this, therefore she held onto her reservations, remaining silent on the subject. 

                "Okay," she said finally, "It's a deal. Ludo gets his maze if I'm allowed to be no more than two seconds from _any_ of the Champions at any time during the task."

                "Done." Dumbledore was smiling triumphantly as he returned to his desk. 

                Jude took a step toward the door and then paused to look back at Dumbledore curiously. "Professor?"

                He looked up. "Yes?" he said distractedly.

                She bit her lip, trying vainly to gage if she should proceed with her question. He may or may not have had an answer for her. She ventured anyway. "Have you heard from Mr. Crouch lately? I mean, he's going to show up at the task, right?"  
                Dumbledore frowned. "I have not heard from him, in person at least, since before the Yule Ball. Apparently, the Ministry has been in contact with him. Ill, I believe was what they said. Why is it you ask?" he questioned discerningly. 

                She shook her head. "Just odd, I guess. Doesn't give me a good feeling, though I couldn't say why." She was frowning and staring past the Headmaster absently, as if looking at something a great distance off. "Something's just not right…and I can feel it." 

                He nodded solemnly. "Let us hope that it is nothing, but prepare for what we fear." 

                Jude nodded in her turn and quickly passed through the door, taking the steps beyond two at a time. She had a few questions for someone. At the gargoyle, she almost ran smack into Professor Snape. A curious look replaced his usual stern scowl as she continued past him, yelling back, "A maze! A bloody maze!" He shook his head and proceeded to the Headmaster's office. 

                She walked at a fast pace down the corridor to the marble steps leading to the first floor and the Entrance Hall. Questions chased others in her head. Bagman was insisting, as far as she knew, on the maze. Spurred on by her cryptic and frustrating dreams, she wanted to know why. As she reached the door it slammed open as a wild apparition flew through them, coming to a startled halt directly in front of her. Wide eyed, Harry stared up at her, panicked and ranting wildly about Mr. Crouch in the forest. 

                Placing a hand on each of the boy's shoulders, she implored him to slow down, but he insisted on seeing Dumbledore.

                "He was talking to a tree! Thought it was Percy Weasley! But then he changed. Started mumbling about warning Dumbledore…something about Bertha Jorkins…she's dead…and something about Voldemort." Harry was panting, barely able to keep up with the pace of his words. 

                "Harry," Jude said sharply, drawing his attention. "Where is he?" She needed to get to him as fast as she could. Whatever was going on, she guessed Crouch would be able to fill her in. 

                "I left him with Krum…near the forest."

                Jude pressed her lips together. It wasn't that she thought the Bulgarian kid was evil or anything, but it still didn't sound good…none of it did. "Alright, Harry. Get Dumbledore out there as fast as you can. He's in his office—hurry." She left him in the hall and headed out the door and across the grounds as quickly as she could manage. Conjuring a luminous ball of bluebell flames in her palm, an expanse of ten feet was suddenly bathed in an eerie twilight-glow of soft blue and shadow. Black vertical swaths soon warned her that she was among a stand of trees on the edge of the forest. Turning left and right, she looked for Viktor, her heart beating faster for every second that passed and he was nowhere to be seen. Ten steps to her right, and then she saw something. Feet—she saw feet, shoes with toes pointing to the heavens. It was Krum. She quickened her pace and was at the boy's side in a moment. He was breathing, a good sign by all accounts. Someone had stunned him. She left the blissfully unconscious form and crept off into the forest, a succession of large prints as her only guide. Soon, even that trail had left her. There was nothing but the lonely cry of the wind in the trees and shadows dancing beyond more shadows. Even her blue flames were no match for the encroaching darkness. She strained her ears, listening, hoping to hear a sound of someone…anyone. 

                There. Heavy breathing, like someone had just run a marathon. She listened again, but now the sound was lost as Dumbledore's voice joined by others shattered the silence somewhere off to her left, the way she'd come. Apparently, they'd found Krum. She pressed forward, hoping to lose their faint voices and to pick up the trail of breathing, having no doubt it was who she sought making those straggled sounds. 

                Holding the flames high above her head, she listened again, endeavoring to stop her breathing from interfering. There it was again. Straining her eyes, she tried to see past the black of night and deep tree cover. She could see nothing. Sighing heavily, she dropped her hand and the bluebell flames again and swore quietly. And then another sound added itself to the curious symphony. Heavy footfalls were cutting a swath across the forest about thirty paces in front of her. She quickly extinguished her light and crouched behind a thick trunk, listening. The footsteps were uneven, as if something were limping, injured. She listened closer. There was the labored, panicked and weary breathing she'd heard before, followed by another sharper succession of breaths. Two people. And they were moving away from her. 

                She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, still crouching, making ready to take a silent step forward. A quiet pursuit was her only option. Frowning, she wished she could chance a light. She couldn't see a damn thing. 

                "Father," an eerie voice spoke into the darkness. "Father, you can't escape me that easily." 

                Jude stilled her own breathing and listened closely, trying to place the voice. It sounded familiar but altered. She couldn't place it in her memory. But if Crouch had a pursuer who was calling him Father…it couldn't be a good sign. Crouching in the forest, listening to mysterious voices on the chilly air, Jude wracked her brain to remember if Barty Crouch, Jr. had ever been caught…or killed. She'd given his father his name as a supporter of the Dark Order, but had the man acted on it? Or had his son escaped like so many others.

                She couldn't remember. Kicking herself mentally for never having given a damn after her testimony had been dismissed who'd gone to Azkaban and who'd walked, she picked up one foot and moved another pace forward. Crack! She'd crunched a twig underfoot and the sound struck the dry wind like a whip, alerting all around her to her presence. 

                "Stupify!" the eerie voice shouted clearly. His aim was infallible and would have hit its target had Jude been standing. Above her a branch snapped and crashed to the ground loudly only a couple of inches before her. Not missing a moment, Jude raised her hand and shouted her curse in reply. It hit nothing. She could feel it. Daring not to move, she listened. The hasty footfalls were retreating along with faltering, scrabbling steps. Crouch and…whoever…were getting away. She moved. 

                Every couple of paces she stopped to listen. After about forty strides, her senses could detect nothing in the woods. She'd lost them. 

                Emerging from the forest a good twenty feet south of where she'd gone in, she could see Dumbledore with Fang at his side talking to an irate Karkaroff and a confused Krum in strained and official tones. She reluctantly walked in their direction. 

                "Miss Elliot! I could have guessed you'd be at the bottom of all of this!" Karkaroff bellowed as he saw her step from the trees. 

                "Igor," Jude said acidly. "Shut up for once, will you?"

                He pressed his lips together in a thin and fierce line. Dumbledore was looking at her questioningly. 

                "I lost him," she said, crestfallen to have to deliver such news. "Are you okay?" she asked as a second thought, glancing in Krum's direction, feeling a bit guilty now for having abandoned him on the ground. 

                Karkaroff clamped a protective hand on his shoulder and spat indignantly, "He is none of your concern!" the same moment Krum muttered a shell-shocked "I'm fine."

                Dumbledore nodded as Karkaroff hissed a rash and impolite salutation and led his student away. She watched them go and then fell into step by the Headmaster's side. "I'm sorry. He got away." She hung her head a bit, not thrilled to be admitting failure. 

                "It is alright, my dear," Dumbledore said soothingly. "Professor Moody has gone to look for Mr. Crouch."

                Jude stopped and glared at the Headmaster, despising the fact that he expected Moody to do what she'd not been able to accomplish. "He's in there. Crouch…and someone else is with him. I think he was chasing him," she explained, ignoring Dumbledore's unintended insult. 

                "Him?" Dumbledore asked, turning to her. 

                She nodded. "I heard him speaking to Crouch. At least I think it was Crouch…how many other people would be walking around in the forest at this time of night? But I couldn't see them—it was too dark." 

                He stared at her discerningly. 

                "Professor," Jude ventured tentatively, not knowing exactly how to say what she wanted to. "He called him _Father_. You don't think…?"

                Dumbledore stared at her disbelievingly. "Impossible. And yet very odd…"

                "What?" she asked anxiously.

                He shook his head. "My dear, Bartimius Crouch, Jr. went to Azkaban two months after you denounced him. He died there."

                Jude frowned. "Did Crouch have any more children?" Nothing was making sense to her anymore. 

                Dumbledore shook his head again. 

                "Well, whoever it was didn't want me to know who he was. He tried to take me out. I chased, but I lost them." Jude glared back at the forest, hoping that Moody fared better than she had in one instant, while also wishing the exact opposite. She wanted the mystery solved, but on the other hand, she didn't like the idea of being one-upped by Moody. 

***

                "Black," Jude said, staring into the flames that cast wavering shadows around her room. "Did you hear anything while you were in prison of Barty Crouch, Jr.?" She rested her chin on Darcy's head, rubbing the dog's scruffy neck. 

                The man in the fireplace frowned. "What do you want to know?" 

                She thought for a minute. "Did he die in prison?" It was a long shot, but she had to take a stab. The chance of her conspiracy coming true was nil, but she had to know.

                He shook his head. "He isn't alive, Jude. He wasted away to nothing in prison. His father only came to see him a handful of times. In the end, stopped coming at all."

                Jude watched the flames darkly. "Do you know Crouch?" she asked curiously, formulating plot after plot in her head. "Senior, I mean." 

                "Yeah, he's the one who gave the order to send me to prison, without a trial," he spat contemptuously. 

                Jude raised her chin from Darcy, who yawned lazily as she watched the head bob in the flames. "He sent you to prison without a trial? Well, at least he treated his son with a little more courtesy," Jude mused. She'd poured over every copy of the Prophet she could scrounge in the Library before she'd found one on his trial. Tried for being an accessory to the torture of Frank Longbottom and his wife. A pang of guilt stabbed at Jude as she thought of Neville's parents. 

                "So," Jude continued, brushing the thoughts from her mind. "What do you make of Crouch showing up at the school looking like hell and babbling like a mental patient?" she asked. 

                "Sounds like he's part of your problem, whether willingly or not," Black said. "Whatever is going to happen is going to happen at the Third Task tomorrow, Jude." 

                It was what she'd suspected as well. By the way Harry had described Crouch's ranting, mindless babbling, she suspected the Imperius Curse. But he was fighting it. So she wondered where he was now…whether he would be back…whether he could explain. But she doubted it. She would be sure tomorrow. The Third Task was set for tomorrow afternoon, dusk. She had the tense feeling of foreboding clinging to her fast. Something warned her that it wasn't going to be a smooth ending to the Tournament. 

                "I'm coming to the Task," Black said abruptly, snapping Jude's attention back to the present. 

                "You're what?" she asked, surprised. 

                "I'm coming," he repeated simply. "As a dog, of course," he clarified. 

                She threw up her hands, not even caring to express her opinion. He knew what she thought. "Do what you want, Black. I'm no longer your keeper." She picked herself up off of the cold floor, cold even though it was already June, and stretched. "See you then, I suppose. I have to get to bed. Exams tomorrow, you know." 

                He half-smiled and wished her good luck before disappearing. She glanced out the window and saw the moonlight glinting off of the waxy leaves of the full-grown maze. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight with the Task tomorrow, but she had to try anyway. It had been a straight week of sleepless nights and she felt the importance of being fully alert tomorrow with keen acuteness. Crawling under the covers, half-burying herself in their lulling warmth, Darcy curled up on top of her feet, she closed her eyes. 

                _Thick green leaves, cool against her fingers. The stars glinted above in the cloudless, black-indigo sky. She ran further and further in. Twisting, turning, doubling back on the path, ducking into another corridor in the maze of looming shrubs, she noticed none of the surreal, colorful beauty around her. The vivid green, deep black, white pearly stars—all sirens trying to steal her attention, steal her resolve. But she would not be distracted. She had to find it. It was here somewhere, she knew. _

_                Further, further, she pressed on into the world of green. The feeling inside, the need to search, tugged at her like an invisible string, pulling her in one direction and then another. Rounding another jade-shrouded corner, she slammed fully into a solid wall of thick, waxy leaves, glossy and brilliant. Frustrated, she pushed away from it and ran in the opposite direction. Another wall. Another. Another. _

_                Trapped, she was trapped in a vortex of green life all around her. A suffocating, leeching life that seemed to draw her and everyone else in. Only to disappear. They had disappeared. The realization struck her hard. She was alone…and trapped. But who was everyone else? She couldn't conjure a face in her mind's eye to go along with the feeling. She wasn't looking for something, she didn't search for an object, she suddenly realized. She looked for someone. But as she stood, hands loose and yielding at her sides, her head turning from left to right, she looked. Nothing. No one. _

_                And then the green melted. Melted to gray. A gray world that was somehow…bigger. Or she was smaller. Gray shrouded everything—the grass was brittle and tinted with gray. The clouds scuttled across the sky…gray. The man in front of her had the pallor of a black-and-white film star…gray. The stone he stood next to…gray. _

_                A stone. The words TOM RIDDLE were etched regally in the stone…a darker gray. He leaned lazily against the stone and smiled gracefully at her, his glossy black hair neatly trimmed…glamorous…he was beautiful, elegant, intoxicating._

_                "You see, cherub. We are the same," he said soothingly, beckoning her to his side. He touched the stone as she walked forward. She came as he'd commanded, stepping lightly passed other stones with words on them, black Yew trees rising up from the ground like pikes on an ancient battlefield. "He didn't deserve me. She didn't deserve you."_

_                She was now at his side and he towered over her. He set a slender hand on her shoulder. It was cold. _

_                "He abandoned me just as your mother abandoned you," he said quietly, bending to meet her at her level. "They will pay." He laughed coldly. "They will all pay, in due time." Gesturing to the stone that bore his father's name, he held her curious gaze steadily. "Those who thought us worthless will tremble before us. They will bow…or they will die," he whispered, eyes glinting. Jude felt her lips curl into an innocent smile at the words, her child's eyes taking in the rows of gray stones that stretched around them before they came to rest on the dangerously handsome man again.  She was not afraid, but felt herself lured by his words like a bee to honey. "Do you want her to pay?" he asked, eyes shining maliciously. "Do you want them all to die?" _

_                "Yes, Master." It was a child's voice, but behind it was an intense conviction. She didn't care what it was he'd said. She was only conscious of wanting to please him. Whatever he wanted she was willing to give. _

_                "Good girl."_

***

                As the students took their seats, Jude tried to quell the nervous tension in her stomach. She hadn't slept much the night before and she was regretting it. Too many things occupied her mind—they still did. Unanswered questions haunted her, like who was the person with Crouch in the forest? Was it Junior who was behind everything or had she reached the wrong conclusion? The only thing she knew for certain was that she'd run out of time. 

                Just then her door swung open and Cedric scurried in and quickly took his seat. Jude frowned. 

                "Cedric, I didn't expect to see you here today," she said, mildly surprised. "You are exempt from taking the end of the year exams, you know that, right? You should be showing your family around…or preparing for the final task today."

                He blushed slightly. "I know, Miss Elliot. But if it's no trouble, I'd like to take the exam." He turned even redder as his classmates made derisive noises and sniggered. 

                Jude grinned, amused. He really was one in a million, this kid. "Okay, then, Cedric. Of course you may."          

Her students stared back at her, expectant and nervous. This was it…the last day she would have many of these students under her instruction. Most were in their seventh year. Eager to leave, move on—something she'd thought she'd already done, but standing here in front of her class, she felt just as young and naïve as they seemed. 

                Smiling, she endeavored to control her wandering thoughts and focus. "I'm not going to give you an exam today," Jude announced. Happy chatter erupted in the room and she had to raise her hands and shout above the din to regain the class' attention. "Not a traditional one anyway. I really want to know what you've gained from our months together…not how many facts or dates you can remember. So, here's what I propose: each student in turn will stand and tell the class what he or she has gotten from this class. Three or four minutes, however long you're comfortable talking. How does that sound?" 

                Many heartily approved, some had their doubts—Fred and George thought it was a trick. But the class was in agreement that it was better than an essay. 

                "I want honest answers though," she advised. "Don't tell me what you think I want to hear."

                Students stood in turn and spoke to their classmates on their favorite topics, what they found the most interesting, what they thought was ludicrous or worthwhile. It was good, Jude thought happily. Her students were excited to share their thoughts and were eager to hear other opinions. There was an easy flow of conversation and Jude hadn't noted a bored face among the crowd. 

                Cedric stood. Looking around a bit shyly, and summoned the words he wished to say. "What have I learned in Muggle Studies? Well, it's a good question because I can't think of one good answer. I think of several. I won't bore you lot with all of them, so if I had to pick the most important lesson I've learned from Miss Elliot…I guess I'd have to say this. I used to live in a small world. My mum's a witch. My dad's a wizard. I never met more than a handful of Muggles in my life. Most of the things I learned in this class were completely new. Even after four years in this class, Miss Elliot was still able to tell me things that I had never known before. And even though I've never seen a computer, and even though I've never looked through a microscope, I now know such things exist. If I had to tell you one thing I learned from this class…from Miss Elliot…well, I'd tell you I know the world is much bigger than I'd imagined it could be." 

                Hands in his pockets, Cedric looked tentatively up at the teacher, eager to know how well he'd completed his task. Her expression set him at ease. As he sat, his face reddened again, a half-smile spread across his still boyish face. Jude was beaming at the boy, speechless. It was far more than she'd expected any of her students to say. And the difference was she knew Cedric meant every word. 

                "Thank you, Cedric," she said, trying to exile the silly grin from her face. "Well, that about does it. I would like to thank all of you for allowing me to teach you this year. You have all been wonderful…I couldn't have asked for a better class. For those of you who have now completed your final year," Jude said amicably, her gaze resting on Cedric, "I wish you the best of luck. For those of you who have yet another year to go, well at least you have summer holiday to look forward to." She smiled and dismissed her class. 

                Shuffling parchments and slipping them into her bag, she turned at the sound of her name. Cedric was standing behind her. 

                "Miss Elliot," Cedric ventured tentatively. "I just wanted to thank you for letting me take the…er…exam." 

                Jude furrowed her brow. This kid was unbelievable. "Of course, Cedric. It was your choice. But I'm glad you did. What you had to say…well, it was great. It was really an honor to have a student like you, Cedric." She smiled and extended her hand to the boy. He looked a bit surprised by the gesture but very pleased. "Good luck tonight, by the way." 

                "Oh, yeah," he said absently. "Tonight. My parents are really looking forward to it. I just hope I don't let them down."

                "I'm sure you won't, Cedric," Jude said honestly. "With a kid like you, I bet your parents would worship you regardless." 

                He nodded. "Yeah, they're great. Speaking of, they're waiting for me in the Great Hall," he said, heading for the door. "Miss Elliot," said Cedric, turning back to face her. Students were still streaming through the door, on their way to the Great Hall themselves for lunch, which she'd been assigned, with Professor Sprout, to maintain order of. "Do you think I could introduce you to them? They'd love to meet you, I know it." 

                She nodded, smiling. "Sure thing, Cedric." She looked around at her slowly emptying class and noted Fred and George milling about. As she was putting her papers away, a bottle had fortuitously brushed against her knuckles. A bottle of disappearing, reappearing ink lay forgotten for months at the bottom, part of an elaborate but forgotten gag. She had an idea. "I'll be there in a few minutes," she added to Cedric as he left. 

                Palming the bottle, she uncorked it behind her back and strode over to the boys. "Well, well, well. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley. It looks as though you two have forced me to do something I've never done before."

                They stared at her then exchanged conspiratorial glances. "And what's that," Fred asked suspiciously. 

                "Admit defeat," she consented graciously. They broke into identically gleeful smiles. "It seems I have been unable to top your spectacular show on Christmas. My hat goes off to you. You have bested the best." Smiling humbly, she tipped the bottle behind her back and coated her right hand with the thick, yet transparent ink. Holding out her hand to each of the boys, she said, "Congratulations."

                Both Fred and George happily took her hand. Then grinning broadly, George nudged his brother and beamed. "Did you hear that? We win! Best of the best," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with the hand he'd given to Jude. "I like the sound of that."

                Fred looked at his brother in turn, tapping an inked finger on his lip. "No, King of Pranks! That sounds better. More fitting, don't you think, Miss Elliot?" 

                She surveyed both evenly, her composure steady, practiced indifference regulating her reaction. George and Fred favored her with regal, judicious looks, both with a hand to their chin. In a few minutes' time, their haughtiness would have been cured, Jude reminded herself. Until then, she could act the part of humble, defeated foe. "It suits you both," she endorsed, following them out of the room and into the hall, allowing herself a devious smirk. 

                The Great Hall was buzzing with a good number of students already. As she stepped through the huge wooden door, she saw Cedric wave casually to her. Beside him stood a tall, ruddy-faced man with a scrubby brown beard and a woman of middling height with the honest, frank and handsome face Jude admired in her son. Cedric's parents looked nice enough, she thought as she walked over to them. She said hello to Cedric and to Cho, who stood at the boy's side, her fingers entwined in his hand. 

                "Mum, Dad," Cedric announced plainly, "This is Jude Elliot, my Muggle Studies teacher." 

                Jude shook the man's hand and then the woman's. Cedric's mum was pleasant enough, very polite. But Cedric's dad seemed to recognize the name. His manner had become more reserved and his smile had disappeared entirely. She vaguely remembered Cedric mentioning something about his father's job at the Ministry. Well, that would explain it, she mused. A few polite words were exchanged between Mrs. Diggory and Jude, centering on Cedric of course. 

                "He's a wonderful person, Mrs. Diggory. You should be very proud," Jude concluded, noting Cedric's embarrassment at being the topic. His mother could have talked for hours about him, but Jude wanted to ease Cedric's suffering a bit. Mr. Diggory also seemed able to sing his son's praises beautifully…if he'd been inclined to speak to her, that is. Instead, he glared with somewhat masked suspicion. Jude was as uncomfortable as Cedric seemed and so she wished him luck again and headed for the front of the hall. 

                "Hey, very funny, Miss Elliot!" Jude heard as she walked past the Gryffindor table. Looking up, she saw Fred and George trying to look angry at her through intermittent fits of giggles. They had ink beards and moustaches. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat next to them. Hermione hid a giggle behind her hand, obviously amused. But Harry seemed torn between laughing and glaring suspiciously at her, while Ron just stared with mild contempt. She grinned. 

                "It's not fair, Jude. You already conceded the victory. This was just dirty!" Fred said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

                "But bloody brilliant!" George added. "I'll have to remember that one."

                Jude laughed. Retrieving the bottle of disappearing, reappearing ink from her bag, she tossed it to George. "It's yours. Happy hunting."

                "Thanks!" Fred chimed. 

                "You did that?" a little redheaded girl asked. She was sitting across from Fred and George, next to a large woman with identical scarlet hair and a cheerful face. 

                "Yeah," Jude said, not knowing whether to feel remorse or pride. She should be setting an example for students. She really needed to grow up. "I did that." The little girl laughed. Jude smiled and was about to continue up to the front when she felt a hand on her arm. 

                "I'm sorry," the owner of the hand said to her, "did you say your name was Jude Elliot?" 

                Jude frowned, not really looking at the man to whom the hand belonged. "Yeah, that's right."

                "It's me, Bill Weasley!" 

                Her eyes widened with the realization. It was Bill! Bill, who now had longish hair and an earring, but still Bill—her silly schoolgirl crush. She couldn't believe it. "Wow. You've changed!" she admitted, blushing furiously and hating herself for it. Nine years and she still blushed when she talked to the guy. What was wrong with her?

                "You haven't! You look exactly the same! Exactly the way I remember you," he was smiling. She was staring. Looking away, her eyes rested on the cheery, matronly woman who was watching her and her son with interest. 

                Jude blushed even more and looked down at her feet. "Don't say that. I hate when people say that," she muttered. 

                The redheaded woman cleared her throat audibly. "Bill, aren't you going to introduce your own mother to this charming young lady?" she cooed magnanimously, extending her hand to Jude, who took it dutifully. 

                "Mum, this is Jude Elliot. She was a year behind me in school," Bill announced. 

                "Three years," Jude corrected. She wished she could have taken it back in the next moment. He obviously didn't remember the particulars, yet she was rattling off dates and all. Jeez, Jude! You might as well wear a sign that says "I fancied Bill Weasley" around your bloody neck, she chastised herself mentally. 

                "Really!" Bill said, astonished. 

                "Hi, I'm Ginny," the little redhead interrupted, obviously perturbed that she was left out. 

                Jude smiled. "Hello, Ginny. I'm Jude." 

                "I know," Ginny said matter-of-factly, clearly happy to get her two cents in for once. "You teach Muggle Studies."

                "Really, a teacher!" Mrs. Weasley chirped, eyeing Bill significantly. "How wonderful. _And_ she has a sense of humor," she added, glancing at her sons across the table. 

                "Mum!" Bill groaned between gritted teeth. Everyone else at the table was trying hard not to laugh. 

                "What? I was just saying…" Bill's mum spluttered. 

                Getting up from the table, Bill put a reassuring hand on his mum's shoulder. "I know. You're just trying to help." 

                Jude muttered a farewell to the table of Weasleys, honorary or otherwise, and stepped a few feet away. Bill had come to stand next to her. She could still feel a dozen eyes boring into her and she heard Hermione remark, "Oh, honestly, Ron!" She hoped it had nothing to do with her. 

                "Sorry about that. Mums, you know," he said. No, she really didn't know, but she wasn't about to say it. She nodded politely anyway and she thought she detected just the slightest bit of blush cross his cheeks. Relieved, she regained some of her composure knowing that they were now on somewhat of a level playing field. 

                "Your mum's lovely," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "You're here for Harry? That's really very nice of you. It must mean a lot to him." 

                Bill nodded. "Well, he's a good kid. Mum's practically adopted him into the family. The only thing that's missing is the red hair."

                Jude laughed. He smiled, pleased that he'd chased the gloom from her face for the moment. 

                "Well, it has been a really long time," Jude ventured, not really knowing quite what to say. 

                "Yeah, it has. A teacher now, that's amazing. Charlie mentioned seeing you here." 

                She smiled again, thinking of Charlie. "Yeah, and how is he?" 

                "You know, busy. Tried to get the time off to come with us, but couldn't make it."

                "So, Charlie tames dragons now. And what does Bill do? Something exciting, I bet. You were never one to let your little brother out do you," Jude said, hoping she didn't sound too nosy. She was trying to guess, but had come up with nothing. She'd assumed he'd be married now, probably to his school days sweetheart. But the way his mum talked led her to believe otherwise.

                "I'm a curse breaker for Gringotts. I live in Egypt now." 

                Well, that certainly did sound exciting. Suddenly Jude felt very boring and plain. A teacher! Of course she could mention her oh so exciting turns as a waitress in a bakery, Dumbledore's assistant and sort of freelance detective living as a cat, but none of that sounded remotely equal in adventure and mystery as a curse breaker. Now that she thought of it, she couldn't believe that was all she'd accomplished in her seven years out of school. Still, it seemed to have an odd sort of symmetry to it: Bill had always been the wonderfully exciting, perfect, funny, popular and handsome guy at school; Adrienne O'Connell, Bill's girlfriend for most of his stint at Hogwarts…still his girlfriend for all she knew, was beautiful, smart, interesting and always did and said the right thing. Why should it be any different all these years later? She certainly hadn't changed—he'd said so himself. She was still the hopeless little screw up that was always in trouble, plain and unremarkable except for her past—the only reason she was well known at the school. With a secret crush on the perfect Bill Weasley! That wasn't even interesting—every girl fancied him. The only reason he even remembered her name now, she guessed, was due to the fact that he and his brother tried to do the noble thing and befriend her, help her, save her. Bloody Gryffindors! Always thinking everyone needed a savior. Well she didn't need one then and she didn't need one now. 

                "Well, that's nice. And how does Adrienne like Egypt? She doesn't strike me as one who'd enjoy all the sand and sun." Jude knew it was incredibly rude, but it was time for the conversation to end. This was the best way to make that point clear. She wasn't fourteen anymore. And the last thing she needed was Bill around today, complicating an already seriously fucked up situation. 

                "You mean, you haven't heard?" Bill asked, his eyes wide.

                Jude frowned. "Heard what?" 

                "Wow," he said, running a hand through his hair. "You must be the only one in all of wizarding Britain who hasn't heard!" 

                She was getting a bit angry now. So, now was he suggesting that she was dim on top of everything else? "So I don't read the paper much…" she said at the exact same moment he announced, "We're engaged."

                She froze, startled at the words. Struggling, she finally regained her composure. "Oh, Bill. That's…that's great. Really, I'm…"

                "Well we _were_ engaged," he sighed. "She left me."

                "Oh," Jude managed weakly. She didn't know what one was supposed to say in these sorts of situations. 

                "Yeah, I guess I should have taken the hint when it took me ten years to get her to say yes. She ran off with Aidan Lynch, you know."

                She shook her head. "Aidan Lynch? Should I recognize the name?" she asked, confused as to why she should have heard of the chap the little floozy was cheating with. 

                "World famous Quidditich player, Jude. You've never heard of him? Plays for Ireland! They just won the Quidditch World Cup." He smiled, disbelieving. "I can't believe you've never heard of him! Well, I guess you never did like Quidditch much." 

                "No," she said dully. "But I am sorry about Adrienne." But Jude really couldn't bring herself to say it with quite the right amount of conviction. She'd always hated Adrienne. The girl had a way of looking right through her, as if she wasn't there. Other kids always saw her, she never could manage to always stay out of the way of them. But Adrienne—she was the only one who couldn't give a damn if she existed or not. And she despised her for it. No, she wasn't sorry about Adrienne at all. 

                "Yeah, well," Bill continued equably, no real feelings of betrayal or anything of the sort marking him as terribly distraught over this either. "I should have known." 

                Jude nodded. A bell chimed in the distance. Last class of the day. Jude felt her heart quicken at the realization. Only a scant few hours remained until the task. And here she was having a friendly chat with Bill. It didn't seem right at all. Nothing did. "Well, it was lovely to see you again, Bill. I have to get to class." 

                He looked at her steadily. "It was really good to see you." As an afterthought, he asked, "Listen, can I see you sometime? Tonight? Tomorrow maybe?"

                And in that moment it was clear to her. "Look, Bill. What she did to you was messed up. But I don't want to be your revenge. My life is complicated enough as it is. Let's just leave it as a chance meeting and a polite goodbye, okay?" His expression fell slightly, Jude noticed. She felt a bit guilty, but it could not be any other way than this. "You deserve better than her, Bill Weasley." She smiled and headed toward the door. "Better than me," she added quietly after she was a good distance away. 

***

                After some thought, Jude scrapped her ideas for her final class. Her improvisation had worked so well in her sixth and seventh year class that she decided to try it on this class. It was a risky proposition, she mused as she looked over her students. This class always had been more controversial than her others. What was stopping it from becoming an out of control free for all? It would only take one comment, one person to start an argument. She decided to do it anyway. 

                The class had reacted positively. A good sign, Jude mused. Everyone had gotten their say, everyone listened politely to what their fellow classmates had gleaned this year. And then there was the wild card. Draco Malfoy. He could go either way: maintain the peace or throw the class into an out and out brawl. It all depended on his mood, really. Jude had learned this over the past months. There had been a sort of truce struck between them. He no longer thought her quite as vile as before, and as long as she didn't mention his father, he was civil; she might even be able to go as far as to say he was friendly. Still, he didn't seem to foster the need to step on toes anymore. He still did it for fun sometimes, but not nearly as often. She smiled encouragingly as he stood to address the class. He really was a good kid despite what he tried to make her think he was. 

                "What I learned from Muggle Studies. Well, that really is the question, isn't it? What did any of us learn?" he asked with a sly grin. The students around him erupted into a barely audible, yet agonized groan. Jude knew it was too much to hope for, yet…

                "That Muggles are equals? That Longbottom may actually have something intelligent to say every now and then? That MacMillain isn't so bad?" He shrugged, hands in his pockets. He loved causing a scene. "No, what I learned from this class was that things aren't always what they seem. At face value, something might seem innocuous…or dangerous. But if you look beyond, if you really try to understand…you may learn something that could surprise you. What had seemed innocent, safe, not threatening, could in reality be your downfall. But, conversely, something you thought dangerous, reproachful, worthless…well, it may be just the opposite of what you think." The angry glares from Ernie and Neville had dissipated somewhat. Jude was staring curiously at the boy, trying to see through his words, trying to understand what was not being said. Seeming to sense this, he finished his statement quickly. "I learned not to take things at face value. That things are always more than what they seem."

                And that was the end. The blank, shocked stares were slowly replaced as Jude announced class dismissed and wished them all a happy summer holiday. The students left excitedly, anticipation of the Tournament's end creating a festive atmosphere as they filtered through her door. Jude couldn't help it…she had to know. She called to Draco before he left. 

                "Yes?" he asked, his lazy and aristocratic drawl still apparent. 

                "I have to know," Jude asked frankly. "Did you mean what you just said?" 

                He smirked, amused. "I may have. I can't really remember." 

                Jude laughed. He was being sincere. 

***

                The night was chilly for June. The sight of the waxy leaves glinting in the pale moonlight gave Jude a sick feeling of strong déjà vu. She turned away. McGonagall was talking, giving instructions to Flitwick, Hagrid and Moody. She wasn't listening. She was taking in the surroundings, making a mental note of everything, of everyone. Dumbledore had already assured her that every precaution had been taken, yet she couldn't fight the feeling that something was horribly wrong. She felt a presence…a strong, malicious presence. But where it came from, she could not guess. And Moody glared relentlessly at her to boot. Her nerves felt frayed. Rent to shreds. 

                She surveyed the crowd, trying to spot anything suspicious. A black dog sat tensely in the top row. Somewhere below it, the redheaded family and Hermione sat. Bill and the redheaded girl were waving at her. She waved back, trying to look less grave and worried. McGonagall was now talking to the four Champions, giving them instructions. Harry, Jude noticed, looked far more nervous than the other three as the professor explained the object and the rules of the task. They all nodded in unison as she finished and asked them if they understood. McGonagall left them standing where they were, beckoning Ludo over. He obviously had a few words of encouragement, probably for Harry mostly. Jude thought it suspicious that he'd taken such an interest in the kid, but then again—he probably made a heavy bet with the goblins and it all came down to poor Harry. Before Ludo started in on them, Jude wanted a word with the Champions, so she availed herself of the opportunity. 

                Taking a deep breath, she endeavored to calm herself, not wanting to needlessly alarm the students. Cedric smiled as she came over. Harry looked even more nervous. Krum eyed her suspiciously and Fleur was indifferent. "I just wanted to remind you all that there will be patrols just outside of the maze. I will be one of them," she said, specifically looking to Harry. "If you run into any trouble whatsoever, it is very important that you let one of us know." She noticed Cedric's smile fall, replaced by a confused frown. Apparently she wasn't a great actor. He at least suspected something now. Harry set his jaw and attempted to look unafraid. "Okay?" she asked, trying to sound more cheerful, more hopeful, less concerned. 

                They all nodded. She wished them good luck as Ludo stepped up beside her, eyeing her warily for a moment. Bagman made a loud announcement to the crowd, stating that Harry and Cedric would go in first followed by Victor, then by Fleur. And in the next instant, they were all gone…behind thick, shrouding leaves. A maze of green, just like her dream. 

                She didn't like this one bit. Cheers from the crowd rose and fell like waves crashing on the shore. Pacing, she had to focus, reaching out with other senses…intuition, gut feeling—no longer could she rely on sight alone. Walking back and forth, trailing a hand absently on the cool leaves, she looked up at the sky. Deep indigo-black, like a dark, backlit canvas with holes punched through it. A faint and pearly light filtered through. It didn't give her a good feeling. An eerie beauty. 

                Moody's eyes followed her—she could feel it. It was distracting to say the least. She tried to ignore him, but he persisted, watching her like a cat eyeing a mouse. Her mind whirled with scenarios, words, scenes of randomness…all clouding her concentration on the here and now. Her mind felt muddled, slow and sluggish. Muggle Studies…her last class, came to mind. Draco's words echoed in her head. "Things are always more than what they seem." The rise and fall of cheers from the crowd. The electrically charged, heavy and still, chilly air. The feeling of malicious eyes on her. "Things are always more than what they seem." 

                She started with a jolt. Catching herself with a hand on the green, smooth foliage of the hedge, a thought struck her hard, forcefully, searing. A bolt of lightning. Moody carrying the cup into the maze, Dumbledore at his side. She'd asked the Headmaster if the cup had been in his protection all along. He'd confirmed that for her, nodding to Moody to take it into the maze. The scene came sharper to her mind than it had been when it had transpired. Had that only been this afternoon? Two hours ago, maybe?

                Turning slowly, she locked eyes with Moody. What did it mean? Why was this scene replaying over and over and over in her head? She took a step toward him. Without thinking, without being aware that she was speaking at all, she heard her voice as if from far away hiss, "Who are you, Moody?" 

                A vicious sneer was the only reply the grizzled, old Auror gave. She turned on her heels and tore off into the maze, as fast as she could make her legs carry her. The crowd was still cheering, loudly then softly, repeating the cycle. She could see nothing but the green leaves all around her. Heart racing, the dream came back with startling clarity. Was it the dream? Or was she running through a maze of thick, waxy green leaves? Reality blurred, yet she ran on, knowing that she just had to get there first. But where was there? She felt the tug of the invisible string, spurring her on, pulling her this way then that way. The maze wasn't an empty green expanse this time. She had to curse several ugly things that looked like earthworms on steroids before her path was cleared to press onwards. Things, lots of creatures were there…but where were the Champions? She'd been running for what felt like an eternity and she'd seen no one. A paralyzing fear welled up inside her, threatening to freeze her frantic motions. But she pressed on, not even aware that there was the option to stop. 

                The tunnel of green halted abruptly. Looking around, she noted that several corridors emptied into one wide courtyard of sorts. A huge, hairy spider lay sprawled, legs spread across the courtyard grotesquely at the opposite end. A prickling feeling made her look away from the giant spider, drawing her gaze to the path that led off immediately to her left. A Sphinx lounged just within the leafy walls of the corridor. She was staring at Jude with a mild, bored interest. 

                Jude turned to face the creature fully. A deep foreboding overwhelmed her. And as the Sphinx began to speak in her sonorous, melodic, entrancing voice, Jude knew what she was about to say. 

                "You already know the answer," the Sphinx said lazily. Jude nodded, feeling her gaze drawn back to the right—to the center of the courtyard. In the middle of the green, grassy expanse stood a granite pedestal. It stood almost as tall as she was. It was bare. The cup was gone. And she knew. 

                Wide eyed, she ran for the far end of the courtyard compulsively. And then she stopped. 

                "You're in an awful big hurry, lass," the voice said. She glanced back but did not turn. Breathing heavily, she tried to force herself to run but couldn't move. In the last instant, she dropped to her knees and felt the heat of a strong curse shoot over her head. She jumped back to her feet and shouted a stupefying spell back at Moody and then turned to run with unmatched speed, not daring to look back to see if her shot hit its mark. Shouting spells, she cleared a straight path in the thick plants that encircled her. Breaking through the last bush, she summoned another burst of speed and ran for the forest. She had to get off the grounds so she could Apparate. She had to get there fast—it all depended on it. Feeling the mark on her arm burn with an unmatched fury, she knew the answer. She knew where Harry had been taken. 


	40. The Answer

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Any recognizable dialogue in this chapter is from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ and is the literary property of J. K. Rowling. 

Chapter Forty: The Answer

'And I'm standing here alone Can't tell if I'm awake 

_Reality is gone_

_In a dream I can't escape'_

_Trust Company, 'Slipping Away'_

                And she had known the answer: exactly where He would be. Knew it—and hated herself for that knowledge in the same instant. Proof that they were alike, just as He'd said. No…not alike. He'd said _the same_. Standing at the edge of the wood, the sleepy town of Little Hangleton rose before her on rolling hills. Beneath her, shrouded in gray and shadow, spread a world of stone. She'd been here before. Oh, yes. She knew this place well. Knew the names on every stone. One stone in particular. 

                His obsession had become hers. His hate had become hers. In the years of His absence, she'd turned that hate on Him. But here…she couldn't hate Him. He called for her, beckoned her to Him like a child again. 

                _"You see, cherub. We are the same."_

                The smooth voice in her head, haunting, lulling. She would have given Him anything He wanted. But she was over the lies. The words frightened and awed her then. They angered her now. Pressing her lips together in determination, she ignored the pain, the suffocating, enveloping feeling of His presence that was so much stronger than it had been in fourteen years. No longer was she willing to give up everything. 

                Staying to the shadow of the dark and slender yews, she peered into the mist. There was shouting, though she couldn't make out the words. She couldn't tell how many there were, how many she was up against. Keeping low and in the darkness, she pressed further into the procession of chiseled stone. He would be at His father's grave. 

                The yews, as if unwilling to collaborate with her, thinned out to a scant dappling of scrawny, stunted saplings. It didn't matter. She wouldn't hide. And besides, He already knew she was here.

                An eerie calm amidst the bustle of activity from the middle of the graveyard, she walked on, taking in the unreality that surrounded her. As if in a dream, or a visitor in a reality…her silent motions were unheeded, if heard at all. Only after a good twenty paces did someone mark her unwelcome presence. Slowly, the man crouched and sprang forward. She reacted in an instant, matching his crouch and planting her feet solidly in the stubbly grass. Stretching her hand out behind her, she felt the cold, smooth surface of stone. A great, marble obelisk marking the resting place of some forgotten martyr barred her escape. Coming forward at an incredible speed, Jude barely had time to wonder at why the man had not pulled his wand instead of charging at her. Cunning or stupidity, she guessed. Either the hulking fellow thought he'd disarm her better by taking the little figure off her feet swiftly…or he was stupid. Crouching even lower and bracing herself with a hand on the cool soil and brittle grass, she reached her conclusion just in time. 

                Springing to the side in the last instant, Jude seized the man by the wrist and allowed his own momentum to throw him headlong into the solid marble. Stupid, she concluded, hearing the satisfying crack as his face connected with the hard surface. The man slumped against the obstruction, his face bloody and smashed, legs sprawled out behind him. She pinned his free arm behind his back, securing him with her knee between his shoulder blades. He grunted, wheezing harshly as she dug her knee in harder, snatching his wand out of his pocket. His nose was probably broken, she discerned blandly. Wrapping her fingers around the wood, she was about to snap the wand, and then thought better of it. Obviously this guy was not the brightest in the bunch—maybe he would require a visible, tangible threat. She leveled the wand at his throat. 

                "Talk," she commanded, shoving his face into the stone, his nose at a grotesque angle. 

                "Go to hell!" 

                His reply elicited a calm and measured retort. Jude seized a handful of the man's short black hair and slammed his head forward into the marble. 

                "Okay," he mumbled through swelling lips and nose. She recognized the voice. Antonin Dolohov. A bit player, fiercely loyal to his Master. Apparently, he'd been able to shake the Ministry all these years…maybe moved. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to focus, neglecting the facts that popped up from her mental file on one of the first assignments her Master had given her. "But I don't know what you expect me to tell you. He got away." 

                She pushed harder. "Who got away?"

                "The boy. Other one was not as lucky though!" A wheezing laugh was cut short as Jude shoved the wand sharply under his chin. 

                Other one? She noted the words with confusion, but pushed them aside. "How?"

                "Grabbed the other one and got the Cup. Portkeyed back." 

                "You better not be lying, Dolohov!" She felt the tremor of shock. 

                "How…how did you…who are you?" he stammered thickly, his nose bleeding freely. Trying to turn his head to gain a glimpse of his assailant, he squirmed under her fierce grip. 

                "Doesn't matter. Who's Voldemort's man on the inside?" she demanded, shoving his face back to the marble as he tried to turn. She had to know. Harry was headed back to Hogwarts…safe. But someone had already gotten past them all…He had a man in there. Still in there…waiting. 

                "I…I don't know!" 

                "Bullshit! He was probably bragging about it to all of you!"

                "No! No, Master didn't say…anything!" 

                The wand pressed further into the flesh of his neck. If it had been a knife, the man would have died already, Jude mused darkly, eerily detached. "Perhaps some persuasion, then!"

                "NO! NO!" the man panted, shaking, "He's got…Barty Jr. He's there. He's the one that got the kid. Been there all year!" He was close to tears. "He's gonna kill me for this," he sobbed pathetically. 

                "How! How has he been there! Tell me!" Jude yelled frantically, grinding the man's bruised and bloodied face into the stone, staining the saintly white marble of the monument. 

                "Moody! He's been pretendin' to be Mad Eye!" 

                It struck her hard. She knew already, somehow, but she couldn't help the shock. In a moment she'd almost lost her grip on the man. He struggled under her hands, under her knee as she fought furiously to free her mind of the jumble that blocked her ability to think. She'd never suspected that Moody wasn't…Moody. She'd sooner believe that the staunch Auror had turned traitor. There was no way that Crouch Jr. could be alive…everyone told her so. But the voice in the forest…called Crouch father…and now Dolohov insisted that he was very much alive and just as loyal as ever. 

                Removing the wand from the man's throat swiftly, she stood in one quick and fluid motion, leveling the weapon at the man's chest as he rolled over on his back. 

                "Thank—," 

                He fell silent, a half-formed thought dead on his lips as she spoke the word. The hulking frame of the man lay innocuous in front of the large stone monument, breathing laboriously, blood still dripping from his face. She turned from the stunned man, breaking the thin rod of wood in her hands and casting it on the ground, looking further into the moonlit rows of graves. 

                Halting, she watched as another man appeared to materialize in front of her. Tall, intimidating, he stepped out of the shroud of fog that seemed to hang, inert, over the graves. It could have been a number of the loyal or not so loyal followers she recalled—another of His cronies. He seemed to examine her cautiously, unsure of how to proceed. She waited for him to make the first move, still, silent. 

                Over the man's shoulder, two smoldering spots of color suddenly emerged from the sea of gray mist. Red. She stared, transfixed. The red pinpricks steadily materialized into fiery eyes set in a sinister, malicious face. Unable to move, she felt her heart pounding in her chest. 

                "I knew you would return, my little sparrow." The voice was cold, electric. "But I fear you are a little late, cherub. You missed my party," he hissed, raising his arm. In ghastly pale and thin, spidery fingers, he held his wand once again. The name, little pet names…once they made her believe she meant something to Him. Lies, she now knew. What she wanted to hear. She meant nothing to Him, she reminded herself as she felt the words prick her mind…just as the pain pricked her skin. Stronger than she'd felt it before…searing with all of his hatred for her, her whole arm was now throbbing with every swift heartbeat. 

                A lulling complacence fought with the need for quick and immediate mobilization within her, but she was beginning to feel all of her fiery urgency seeping from her as she held His burning gaze. Wand still leveled at her, she felt the heat of the words, the anger in them as He spoke the curse. Galvanizing her instincts, strengthening her own will, subduing His will in her, His words startled her out of her thick and suffocating apathy. Raising her left hand as a simple instinct, she felt her whole body shudder with the impact. She hadn't realized she'd squeezed her eyes shut, but as she opened them, she blinked back tears. Her hand was burning, throbbing with pain from the blocked curse. She glanced down at her open palm. It was glistening and raw. A large burn covered the entire surface, from the inside of her fingers to just before her wrist, melding every line, every scar into one seamless mark. 

                Looking up, she met His eyes once more. Glowing with a renewed fury, He was seething with anger. He didn't move, wand still raised and at the ready. But she was the first to act. With a swift Stunning Charm, the man at His side fell to the ground, her curse flawlessly aimed. And she ran.

                He smiled viciously. Even now she couldn't bring herself to strike Him.

                She ran with all she had left in her, straining the last bit of energy from every last muscle, from every aching bone. The woods, cover, relative safety was just a little more than fifty yards immediately in front of her. Yet she had to fight to keep her direction. The throbbing mark on her wrist now joined with the pain in her hand was radiating throughout her whole body. He wouldn't let her go without a fight. She forced herself onward, asserting her will with frantic effort, trying to beat His will into submission. It was threatening to consume her, forcing her to slow her pace, to stop, to come back to Him. Gritting her teeth in viciously straining determination. Ten yards, then five. She didn't dare look back. Three yards, two…

                Darkness enveloped her and she dropped to her knees, gasping. Drawing herself up, she clung to the rough bark of a yew, her knees shaky and her head swimming. The pain abated slightly as she was shielded by the sinister trees, but He still summoned. She'd gotten away, yet she couldn't help feeling that she shouldn't have. He still called to her, steadily, strongly. But it had been too easy. She couldn't help feeling that He was letting her go. 

                Trying vainly to catch her breath, she summoned up all her strength left to her weary and exhausted body, trying to focus. She had to Apparate now, back to Hogwarts. This night was far from finished. 

***

                Running. Frantically. She felt like she'd been running for hours. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded against her ribs, her hands shook. Still she kept running. She could see the high wooden stands that surrounded the Quidditch pitch from here. No more than one hundred yards. People, she could see, bustled around, leaving the stands and flowing en masse to the ground. Pushing herself harder, her legs burning, aching, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, she neared the scene. 

                Shoving her way through the crowds, she was oblivious to the rude words and gestures her actions elicited. Elbowing past some students, she came face to face with a startled Minister Fudge. Stopping, she allowed her surprise to delay her only momentarily. Ignoring his protests, his declarations that she was behind all of this and demanding her immediate seizure, she circumvented him quickly, without a word. He was left to stare after her in utter astonishment as she rushed recklessly through the crowd. 

                Emerging from the masses, she saw a few detached people standing apart from the onlookers. Recognizing them, she rushed over to them as quickly as she could. Several long strides brought her close enough to notice him. A figure lay crumpled at the feet of three others. Unmistakable. It was Cedric. She fell to her knees and hands on the cold grass, panting, her head swimming. The words echoed in her head. _The other one wasn't as lucky_. All she could do was suck in shallow, ragged breaths, black spots danced in front of her eyes. Her elbows shook with the effort of holding her up when all of her strength was gone. Her chest was aching and all she could hear was blood pounding loudly in her ears. 

                She didn't feel the hand on her shoulder. She only noticed he was there when he grabbed her face with both hands, forcing her to look at him. Professor Snape was next to her, asking her hurried questions that she could not comprehend. Words came to her mind that she desperately needed to say, but all she could do was cough and sputter. Taking a deep breath, she finally managed to gain the upper hand. 

                "He's…here! It's Moody!" She struggled on hands and knees to stand on shaky legs. "Where's Harry?" she yelled frantically, looking back over her shoulder at the lifeless Cedric. The tight and constricting feeling in her stomach grew stronger. 

                Dumbledore approached them both, beckoning McGonagall from her sentinel by Cedric's body. He was looking at her with deep apprehension, sensing what news she had for him. The Headmaster silently instructed them to follow. She'd never seen Dumbledore so tense and angry. Professor McGonagall and Snape both brought out their wands and held them, alert and ready. Looking sideways at McGonagall's stern, rigid composure, Jude asked her quietly if Cedric was dead. McGonagall stared straight ahead and answered in an officious, somber tone that it was so. 

                Jude's expression turned from weary confusion and apprehension to frigid and calculating rage. Her features were tense, hard and angry. She felt a new source of strength from a fury that grew with every step closer. She indeed was a murderer, but only now did she understand a murderous rage. For the first time ever she wanted to kill. 

                The Headmaster halted decisively in front of a solid, oaken door. Locked. He nodded wordlessly to Snape and McGonagall, who moved to flank him, wands trained on the door. She stepped up beside the Headmaster and held her left hand steady, controlled even though the sting of the burn was enough to bring involuntary tears to her eyes. Dumbledore nodded calmly and they spoke in unison. A bright, blinding red flash brought the once formidable door down in one instant. With a loud thud, Moody was thrown from his feet and crashed hard against the floor. Quickly, Jude brushed past the others. Angry, even steps sounded through the room as she closed the distance between herself and Moody. Raising her hand, she took aim at Moody's prone and unconscious form. Her face was blank and indifferent, cold and hard. 

                A hand seized her suddenly by the wrist and she broke her entranced glare at Moody, meeting the stern, uncharacteristically harsh eyes of Dumbledore. The familiar twinkle was gone, replaced with an electrically reproachful severity. He shook his head sternly and let go of her, his eyes flicking across the room to a figure opposite her. Blankly, she followed the professor's pointed look and saw Harry, wide-eyed and frightened, staring at her with an uneasy expression. She dropped her hand and backed away from Moody slowly. Staying near the wall of the small office, Jude wished she could disappear altogether rather than brave another look like that from the boy. McGonagall rushed over to her student, making a fuss, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes still followed her as she attempted to shrink from them. 

                "Come along, Potter," McGonagall whispered, her lips stretched sternly into a thin line. "Come along…hospital wing," she stammered, her voice quavering uncharacteristically as she attempted to help the boy stand. Apparently, he'd hurt his ankle some how. His attention was blessedly diverted to McGonagall. 

                "No," Dumbledore said sharply, tensely. Everyone in the room froze. 

                "Dumbledore, he ought to—look at him—he's been through enough tonight—," 

                "He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand," Dumbledore continued, his words clipped and edgy. "Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why."

                "Moody," Harry stammered, in a complete state of shock and disbelief. "How can it have been Moody?"

                "This is not Alastor Moody," said Dumbledore, turning his attention to the man at his feet. Jude was bent on every word the professor spoke, watching and waiting, eager to learn how she'd been deceived. "You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew—and I followed."

                As he spoke, he bent over the heap on the floor and retrieved a curious object. Jude recognized it at once. It was Moody's hip flask. His neurotic trademark. And the puzzle came together just like that. The last piece of the curious enigma of how he'd done it was clear to Jude. But what she was eager to know was how Crouch, Jr. was alive to fool her in the first place. Dumbledore held the flask in his hand along with a set of keys on a thick brass ring. He examined them for a moment and then turned calmly to Professor Snape and McGonagall. 

                "Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly go down to Hagrid's house, where you will find a large black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, then come back here."

                The two professors left at once to execute their orders, neither giving any indication that these were indeed strange instructions. Jude remained still, watching the two remaining warily. They both seemed to forget she was present at all. She didn't mind. She was here simply to observe, to know how Crouch, Jr. had made a fool of her. 

                Dumbledore shuffled through the keys, turning his attention to a great trunk shoved up against the wall next to the cluttered desk. The trunk was fitted with seven locks, each the same aged brass color of the ancient keys, all a different size, corresponding to equally mismatched locks. One after the other, Dumbledore fitted the keys into the locks, opening the trunk and closing it in succession: spellbooks then broken Sneakoscopes, some parchment and quills, an Invisibility Cloak. Cautiously, he placed the seventh key into the seventh lock. It opened with a loud clack. He threw it open and Harry let out a cry of shocked amazement. 

                Jude knew instinctively what to expect. The trunk seemed to have no bottom, almost like a pit. It was where he'd kept him, close by but out of the way…out of sight. Dumbledore leapt lightly down into the trunk and called to Harry to hand him the cloak that covered Crouch. 

                "Stunned," he explained, his voice muffled by the distance, "controlled by the Imperius Curse—very weak." He climbed back out of the bottomless trunk. "Madam Pomfrey will need to see him, but he seems to be in no immediate danger."

                Walking calmly over to the desk where he'd deposited the flask, he uncapped it and turned it over. A thick, oozing substance poured out of the flask and onto the floor. 

                "Polyjuice Potion, Harry," said Dumbledore. "You see the simplicity of it…the _brilliance_ of it. For Moody never does drink except from his hip flask, he's well known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep the real Moody close by, so that he could continue to make the potion. You see his hair…" Dumbledore looked down on the Moody in the trunk, Harry at his side, imitating him. "The imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight, our fake Moody might have forgotten to take it as frequently as he should have done…on the hour…every hour…We shall see." Dumbledore turned to Jude with a clever smile and she noted the twinkle had returned to his eyes. She remained silent. She knew who lay on the floor, every appearance suggesting he was Moody. 

                Jude stared blankly at the Headmaster as he took a seat behind the desk, his gaze intent on the imposter. A loud clunk drew her attention to the center of the room, the wooden leg of Moody's lay unneeded by the unconscious figure of Barty, Jr. She was a bit shocked at the sight—it _was_ him, sandy blonde hair and freckles, but he was deeply lined around the eyes. Much older, but still the same. And alive. What was completely impossible to her now became a shattering reality. 

                Hurried footsteps caused her to snap her head toward the door, away from Crouch. Snape stood in the doorway with a curious…filthy and disheveled…house-elf at his heels. Her pink face was dirty and tear-stained. She let out a piercing howl as she saw the man lying on the floor, unconscious. 

                "Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?" the little creature cried as she flung herself on the prostrate figure. Her face turned alarmingly swiftly in Dumbledore's direction as she began to wail, "You is killed him! You is killed Master's son!"

                Jude watched the house-elf, stunned. Crouch's house-elf had been working here? Why? 

                "Good heavens!" McGonagall said, stopping dead in her tracks behind Snape as she saw the man on the floor. 

                "He's simply stunned, Winky," said Dumbledore, brushing the elf away. "Severus, you have the potion?" 

                Snape handed him a small glass bottle of clear liquid. Jude recognized it. Veritaserum. Dumbledore bent over the man and pulled him into a sitting position before forcing a few drops down the inert man's throat. He lay propped up against the wall, head lolling about his shoulders. Dumbledore pointed his wand at the man's chest and said, "_Ennervate_."

                Crouch opened his eyes. He stared, face slack, eyes unfocused. Dumbledore knelt before him, his face level with the man's. 

                "Can you hear me?" Dumbledore asked quietly. 

                "Yes," he answered blandly. 

                "I would like you to tell us," said Dumbledore tensely, "how you came to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?" 

                A long, agonized breath was the only sound of emotion the man emitted. His tone returned to a mindless monotone as he explained to a captive audience. Jude didn't realize that she had been staring at the man, unblinkingly, just as mindless as he since he'd spoken. Her mind was reeling with the thousands of remembrances that voice conjured. 

                "My father smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case any prisoners were watching through their doors," Jude heard him relate dispassionately, only picking up bits and pieces of his story. This was what she was waiting to learn and even now she couldn't focus her attention on him. An enveloping weariness settled over her like a great smothering Lethifold. "My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban…Everyone believed her to be me." 

                "And what did your father do with you, when he got you home?" Dumbledore asked patiently. 

                "Staged my mother's death…That grave is empty…The house-elf nursed me back to health…Then I had to be concealed…controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to subdue me. When I had recovered my strength I only thought of finding my master…of returning to his service."

                "And how did your father subdue you?" Dumbledore asked, sounding like a child psychologist coddling a kid, coaxing information from him. 

                "The Imperius Curse," Crouch said in a robotic monotone. "I was always under my father's control…he made me wear an Invisibility Cloak. I was always with the house-elf…she was my keeper…my caretaker. She pitied me."

                "Master Barty, Master Barty!" the very same elf, Jude judged, sobbed through her hands. "You isn't ought to tell them, we is getting into trouble…"

                "Did anyone know except your father and the house-elf?" 

                "Yes," Crouch conceded, his eyes flickering. "A witch in my father's office. Bertha Jorkins." 

                That name. Harry said Mr. Crouch told him she was dead the night he appeared in the forest and then just as mysteriously vanished again. Jude pulled her sluggish attention back to the question and answer.

"Tell us about the Quidditch World Cup," said Dumbledore. 

                "Winky talked my father into it," said Crouch, his voice still the same creepy monotone. "I had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said…He can watch. Let him smell fresh air for once. She said my mother would have wanted it. She told my father that my mother had died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end. It was carefully planned…I was to sit there, invisible. Winky would appear to be alone. Nobody would ever know…but Winky didn't know I was getting stronger. I was fighting my father's Imperius Curse…It happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front of me, a wand sticking out of a boy's pocket. I stole it. Winky didn't know. Winky is frightened of heights. She had her face hidden."

                "Master Barty, you bad boy!" Winky hissed, tears trickling down her smudged, unhappy face.

                Jude watched the little house-elf, making excuses for this man, for his father. Jude had never set much value in parents, but it was obvious that Barty's had gone through much trouble to free him from that hell of a prison. His mother had given her life for him. And this house-elf had taken care of him faithfully since. And he betrayed them all. Turned back to Him. 

                "We went back to the tent," Crouch continued blandly. "Then we heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones who had never been to Azkaban. The ones who had never suffered for my master. They had turned their backs on him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They were free to seek him, but they did not. They were merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of the their voices woke me. My mind was clearer than it had been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My father had left the tent; he had gone to free the Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest, away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord meant, and to punish them for their lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky. 

                "The bond connecting us was broken. We were both stunned," Crouch continued. Jude was only grabbing bits and pieces of his story, mentally putting it together. It would have been just before school…he could have attacked the real Moody now that he was strong again and now that he was free. Mr. Crouch had been such a fool. And now a boy was dead because of him, she thought angrily, gritting her teeth and glaring at Crouch, Jr. 

                "He dismissed Winky. Now that it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then…and then…" Crouch's head stopped lolling on his neck. He turned to Dumbledore and an insane grin spread across his once cold and blank face. "My master came for me." 

                His voice was chilling, yet Jude continued to stare steadily, blankly, unmoved by his hysterical zeal. He continued explaining how his master found him, using information he'd tortured out of Bertha Jorkins. 

                "He had captured her in Albania," he said, once again dispassionate. 

                Albania. Jude hung onto the word. Albania, so that was where He was hiding out obviously. The last time she had seen Him, He was weak, living off of another. Only now was He strong, only now could she feel His presence like a beacon. Not as strong as He had been, but she had seen Him. He had regained His body. It was only a matter of time now.

                Winky was wailing desperately as Crouch Jr. spilled her master's secrets. 

                "And what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?" Dumbledore asked hesitantly, yet steadily. 

                "He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest ambition, to serve him, to prove myself." A haughty pride was creeping into his drugged, bland tone. Jude tensed, angered. She knew it was his dearest hope to gain Voldemort's esteem. He was always clamoring for His praise. For His approval. And she knew what lengths he was willing to go to achieve it. 

                The rest of Crouch's words were lost amidst the low buzzing in Jude's ears. Her eyes unfocused and she stared blankly ahead, unable to fight the memories that vied for and won over her attention. She could still hear the idle yet traitorous chatter in the next room. Lucius' pristine and grand manor, a statement of his vanity, was alive with activity that night. And she had entertained hopes of gaining the final, fatal bits of information that would finally condemn Lucius as Voldemort's most deceitful and dangerous enemies. 

                _As she crouched low, she peered through the hairline crack in the mahogany door. The next room was brightly lit and impassioned talk had been commencing for some time. It had been an hour or so, she gauged from her aching knees. It would be so much easier as a cat, she mused ruefully, but she could react quicker this way. So she frowned and remained motionless behind the door. Listening. She was straining, her ear against the minute crack. In the room behind her she hadn't noticed the silent motion in the dark shadows, her attention was so fixed on what passed in the other room. She heard the word the moment before she fell forward, her world turning to black. _

_                Blinking, she opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by angry, cold faces and a dozen or more wands trained on her. Against a few, she held the advantage. But against so many? Attempting to get up, Lucius chucked coldly and placed the toe of his immaculate leather shoe against her shoulder and kicked her back to the floor. _

_                "Little Bird, Little Bird," he said, affecting a disappointed air and shaking his head at her. "You have been a very bad little pet, I fear. Now what am I to do with you, hmm?" He knelt low and stared at her curiously, aloof. The others remained, towering over her, wands still aimed threateningly at her. "I believe you have heard far too much for me to simply let you go." Standing once more, he rubbed his chin and frowned with thought. Whirling around swiftly, he took aim at the child again, a cruel, disdainful smirk curling his lips unpleasantly. "Crucio!" he bellowed. _

_                She could feel nothing but the white-hot pain, tearing, pounding, searing, aching pain. Blinking, she could see nothing beyond her own agony, and she could hear nothing but the sound of her own screams intermingled with his amused laughter. An eternity passed in her mind before the unbearable pain ceased. She still laid panting and shaking on the Persian rug, trying to see through her tear-blurred vision. Lucius was glaring at someone, looking from the person to their outstretched hand, their fingers wrapped around his wrist, his wand still clenched in his hand. She could hear the person speaking, tried to hear the words above her own racing heart. _

_                "Enough, Lucius," the voice said calmly. "What would you tell him if his spy returned to him driven mad by your reckless curses. Or worse—if she didn't return at all! He would hunt each one of us down. We are not ready to face him, Lucius. It would be a declaration of war for you to harm this child. Make her see the…advantage of remaining silent. It's worth a try at least, wouldn't you say, Lucius?"_

_                The words seemed to mollify him. He frowned, dropping his wand to his side and turned his attention on her. "And if she doesn't cooperate?"_

_                "She will," the cold voice replied, the owner bending close enough for her to make out his features clearly through her fuzzy vision. Recognition dawned and she gritted her teeth with hatred. Severus Snape surveyed her curiously before pulling her to her feet. She stood shakily and immediately yanked her arm out of his grasp, glaring venomously at the man. The circle of traitors laughed maliciously at her vain and spiteful gesture. He joined in their laughter, mirthless and mocking. She felt an angry blush rising in her cheeks as she narrowed her eyes and frowned. He ignored her and grabbed her roughly by the arm. "Come, let's have a little chat, shall we?"_

_                She struggled weakly, her head still fuzzy and her strength waning. Magic was beyond her at the moment, so she put up only minimal resistance. Dragging her down the hall, he only paused after a considerable distance had been placed between them and the room full of traitorous Death Eaters. He knelt in front of her, holding her firmly by both arms. _

_"Listen," he said, his eyes raking the area in jerking sweeps. He was nervous, edgy, she could tell. "You are not to say a word of this…to anyone."_

_                "And you're going to stop me?" she bust out loudly, incredulous. "You may have them fooled. But not me! I know who you are! They think you're loyal to Malfoy, but you're not! You're not loyal to anyone!" she bellowed, struggling harder. _

_                "Hush, you foolish girl," he hissed angrily. "I could have left you there to be tortured and killed! Is that what you want? It would make no difference to me either way!" _

_                Her eyes were wide and imploring but she said nothing. No longer was she struggling, however. He checked his anger at the sight of her frightened face. Trying not to lose his temper with the insolent girl, he attempted to explain. "You don't belong here. These men are dangerous. They want you and your master dead. I'm trying to stop them…"_

_                "And Master…you want Him dead too," she said accusingly. "You are a spy for the Ministry."_

_                "Yes," he answered her acidly. "I want him dead. And I'm helping the Ministry." He knew it could very well be his condemnation, but he told her anyway. _

_                "Why? Master has only ever looked after His faithful! Why would you betray Him?" she asked pitifully, her head pounding mercilessly. _

_                "His faithful? I have been his faithful servant for five long years. In that time I have seen him murder two of my closest friends. Also faithful followers." He stared shrewdly at the child. "That is the price we pay, loyal or not. We pay with our lives. The night he killed my last true friend, I decided that I wasn't willing to give him everything."_

_                "But…it's what He asks…" she stammered, reciting the doctrine He'd meticulously instilled in her. _

_                "Why should we care what he asks? What has it gotten us? Why do you think all of these men plot his demise?" he said emphatically. "He is using them just as he used me…just as he is using you."_

_                She shook her head frantically, hoping to dislodge the words. "He doesn't…I'm loyal! He's not using me. He cares about me!"_

_                "He doesn't, child. Can't you see that? As soon as you have outlived your usefulness, he will kill you." His words were almost dispassionate, as if reciting bland facts. _

_                She wanted them to be unsaid, to go away. And because she wanted it so, she knew it was true. Her Master didn't care for her. It made her feel small and helpless, alone and frightened for the first time in three long years._

_                "Will you remain quiet on this matter?" _

_                She nodded sorrowfully, tears rimming her eyes. _

_                "You promise? Not a word to anyone?" he asked, looking up and down the hall. _

_                She nodded again. _

_                "I'll figure a way out of this, I promise. But for now, you better go back to him, quickly. Pretend this never happened, that we've never talked." He gripped her shoulders tightly and implored her frantically. She conceded, dejected and downtrodden. He'd just ripped her whole world apart. He promised he could make it better but she didn't believe him. She didn't believe anyone anymore. But she always did as she was told—it was comforting, familiar and reassuring to follow orders. She watched the dark figure retreat into the shadows before she slunk silently away into the night, back to her Master. _

_                In four months of watching, of waiting, she'd seen nothing that proved him wrong. Her Master indeed cared little for her beyond whether or not He held her implicit loyalty, her undying devotion to Him. And she played the part well. She'd had three years of practice, believing His lies, being deceived by His kind words. And then it happened. Her Master was informed of his connections with the Ministry…that he was a spy. For years He'd been betrayed by a faithful follower and now He planned His revenge. She sat by His side, watching intently, awestruck as He plotted and schemed to bring the traitor down. He'd told her when and how He would have the last say. Hidden behind her clever smirk, her adoring face, she plotted on her own. _

_                "You have to leave," she whispered harshly in the darkened corridor. He'd come to report to his master. It was a trap. She was repaying her debt now, knowing very well how much it could cost her. He'd saved her from death at the hand of Lucius Malfoy and she would repay him in kind and be done with it. No more owing anyone, no more loyalty. "He knows about you and Dumbledore and your plotting. He's going to kill you as soon as you go in there."_

_                "Are you sure?" he asked skeptically. _

_                She shot him a cold and angry glare. "Of course I'm sure," she hissed, her eyes darting up and down the corridor. "You need to leave now."_

_                A tense silence hung between them before he spoke. "I'm taking you with me," Snape intoned gravely. "I can't leave you here to be killed. The Ministry plans a raid in three days' time." _

_                "I…I can't. He'll know. He knows where I am…always." She glanced down at her wrist, frightened. "He would hunt me. I can't."_

_                "You foolish child! You know too much…about everything! If they don't kill you, he will!" _

_                "I know!" she said frantically, hearing footfalls echoing in the stone corridor, just coming around the corner. "You have to go! Now!" she pleaded, backing away from him. He stared at her, disbelieving, unsure of whether to stay or go. Hearing the footsteps near, he turned a cold, angry glare on her and disappeared without another word. _

_                As soon as she was sure he was gone, she glanced down the hall where the sound of footfalls had come from. They seemed to be moving away. She sighed, relieved and turned to head down the corridor in the other direction. A malicious, self-satisfied laughter halted her, froze her to that spot. Wide-eyed, she stared into the darkness ahead of her, unmoving, not even daring to breath. _

_                "Well, well, well. Master's most faithful servant. His beloved pet. Betraying Him!"  The intruder snapped viciously, stepping into the milky light of the rising moon._

_                In her shock, she was not swift enough to block the Stunning Charm. She fell to the ground, immobile. In her last instant of consciousness, the person had emerged from the shrouding shadows._

_                It was Barty Crouch, Jr._

                "And tonight?" Dumbledore's voice brought her crashing violently back to the present. She jumped as if shocked by an electrical current. Turning back to Crouch she saw the same insane grin plastered over his boyish face, a grin of triumph identical to the one he wore the night he'd finally been able to deliver her, the little Judas, to her disappointed Master. 

                "I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze before dinner," Crouch whispered harshly. "Turned it into a Portkey. My master's plan worked. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him beyond the dreams of wizards." 

                The insane smile lit his features once more, his head lolling until his eyes met hers. She stood shaking with rage, trying not cower in front of him. But she felt weak, sick, ashamed, his eyes accusing, boring into her. She pushed away from the wall viciously and slammed her way through the door, shoving by McGonagall without a word, an apology…anything. Outside, she gasped for air, her hands shaking…her whole body shaking. She leaned against the cold wall, but could no longer support her own weight. Allowing her knees to give, she slid to the ground, resting her head in her hands, still shaking uncontrollably. 

                She thought that night drug on unnaturally long. Well, this one was now threatening to out pace even the night she'd betrayed her Master, killed a man and started her life over again. Every time she'd ever slipped up, almost let the bad guy win, missed something important, it all came back now to taunt her. However strong, willful and capable she'd ever believed herself to be, all the instances that had ever proven her inadequate replayed in her mind, telling her over and over that she was weaker, duller, more helpless than she thought she was. And this time it had cost her the life of an innocent. 

                Head in her hands, she didn't have the strength to look up as the door to Moody's office creaked open and several hurried footsteps scuttled past her. She didn't think she could face them…or she didn't want to. It was all the same. A pause, thick silence, was interrupted by the creak of the door once more and then more footsteps—only these were not hurried. They were slow, purposeful, joined by an unsteady, unsure rhythm. Jude looked up to see Dumbledore staring pointedly at her, Harry a step behind him, favoring one foot over the other and purposely avoiding her. She got to her feet immediately, yet she was shaky, her muscles protesting any movement now. 

                "Miss Elliot, if you would join us," Dumbledore beckoned to her, proceeding down the corridor followed by Harry. Weary and confused, Jude didn't ask questions, she just did as she was told. Silently, she studied Harry. He seemed dejected, depressed and just as tired as she was—possibly more. He was limping—somehow he'd injured his ankle. All her feelings of guilt were renewed as she looked at the kid. No one his age should have to deal with what he handled. 

                "Professor," Harry said quietly, breaking the still silence, "Where are Mr. and Mrs. Diggory?" 

                Jude remained behind the two a few steps and listened. She'd wanted to ask the same things but had not the will or courage Harry had. 

                "They are with Professor Sprout," Dumbledore said stoically, a bit weakly, Jude thought. "She was Head of Cedric's house, and knew him best."

                In silence they walked the rest of the way until Professor Dumbledore stood in front of the stone gargoyle. He muttered the password and the faithful guardian leapt aside for them. Jude continued to follow tentatively, knowing who awaited them in Dumbledore's office. She'd failed him just as she'd failed Harry. He asked her to look after him in his absence and she'd failed. 

                The Headmaster opened the door and immediately the stark, pale and shocked expression of Sirius Black met them. Jude stared, a bit astonished. He looked worse than he had scant months after his escape from Azkaban. Before she had even closed the door, Sirius was frantically questioning an extremely weary Harry. 

                "Harry, are you all right? I knew it—I knew something like this—what happened?" 

                He glanced, terrified, at Jude as she quietly slunk into the periphery, staying to the shadows. Turning from her without a word, he helped Harry into a chair gently, noting his injured leg with a grave expression. He looked pleadingly at the Headmaster. "What happened?" 

                Dumbledore told Black everything that had transpired in Moody's office just minutes before. Everything Crouch had said, everything Jude had missed in the course of the year—she knew it wasn't an accusation, but it still stung like a finger pointed condemningly in her direction. Her legs were shaking with the effort of keeping her standing, but she ignored it. She stared ahead of her blankly, not really looking at anything, listening but not marking a word that was said. It wasn't until Harry spoke softly that she glanced up at the boy. Dumbledore's phoenix rested on his knee and he was talking quietly to it. 

                He looked tired, worn out. Yet Dumbledore persisted with questions. He was pushing to know what happened after the Portkey had whisked him away to Voldemort. Jude had to admit that she was curious to know this bit of the story more than anything, but the look on Harry's face told her that he was just as loath to talk as she was. The fatigue, the bone-weariness that Jude felt shown clearly on his face, he was at his limit. Dumbledore's persisting and Black's objections jumbled together to create one unbearable, head-splitting din. Jude glanced around and forced herself to take the necessary steps to a chair before she collapsed on the dusty rug of the office floor. Harry recounted his misadventure with a stunned blandness. Jude listened intently but she could not look at the boy as he spoke with a lifeless tone of a sparkling, liquid-metallic potion that revived Voldemort; he told of the Death Eaters stepping from the gray shroud of fog, of Cedric's body lying, lifeless, next to the Cup. 

                She opened her aching hand and saw the red, raw flesh glistening in the low light, listening without expression as Harry told Dumbledore and Black how Wormtail had pierced his arm with a dagger, taking his blood. Blood that Voldemort used to resurrect himself. How he wanted so much more than blood from him. She knew he wanted so much more from everyone…

                Jude knew what this meant. Voldemort was now immune to his mother's protection. Clever on His part, but that hadn't ensured Him what He truly thought it would have. The boy was alive, sitting in Dumbledore's office, a bit frightened but not defeated. Jude was impressed with Harry as he told about the wands and how he'd forced his to overpower its brother wand, Voldemort's. The _Priori Incantatem_. It took great dedication and strength to overcome another in that method. Usually, they would have canceled each other out, but Voldemort in this situation should have surely been the victor. It was a great testament to Harry's will, or it was particularly telling of Voldemort's current state. If Harry could defeat Him then He might not have gained his full powers yet. There still might be time. 

                But not for Cedric, Jude was reminded as Harry recanted what happened during the _Priori Incantatem_. Cedric, an old man, Bertha Jorkins…Harry's mother…Harry's father. Jude fought a deep, sick feeling as he told Dumbledore and Black about seeing his parents for the first time that he could remember. For a brief and terrifying moment, she thought he was going to announce that his father and mother had told him…exactly what had happened the night they were killed. But they didn't. Harry instead told of how they'd instructed him on what to do. They had saved his life tonight. Something she could not have done. And she was grateful to them…for that and for allowing her to keep her secret for another day. 

                Harry continued to speak to Dumbledore, and Jude continued to stare at her hand, marked with her latest encounter with a man that she would never fully escape. She shouldn't have been able to escape Him tonight. She shouldn't have been able to escape Him…ever. 

                She closed her hand abruptly, clutching it to her chest greedily, suspiciously as she noticed someone coming toward her out of the corner of her eye. The motion was of a child afraid to have something cherished taken away from her, or desperately trying to hide something from a spying adult. Sirius Black was standing before her with a stern, confused face as she stared up at him with a frightened, childish expression. She felt like the small girl, glaring into this harsh face as he questioned her where his godson was, the smoldering ruins of his friends' house smoking like a macabre backdrop to some grotesque drama. She steeled herself for the rebuke she knew she was about to receive. 

                "Jude," he said cautiously, quietly, Harry and Dumbledore still in conversation behind him. "I…I guess I should thank you. You did…"

                "I did nothing," she said quietly and contemptuously. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I could have stopped this all. But…but I didn't…I couldn't…" She had not the slightest clue of what she wanted to say, even though the feeling of it was there, plain, waiting to be vocalized. She felt sorry, she wanted to take it all back, to fix it. She was still clutching her hand to her chest, staring blankly ahead, silently feeling all the good intentions die on her lips before they reached words. Words were useless now. 

                "Sirius, would you like to stay with him?" the Headmaster spoke and Black turned abruptly, immediately conceding. He transformed back into the enormous black dog Jude had noticed in the stands by the maze-covered Quidditch field only hours prior. The dog padded over to Harry who placed a grateful hand on the dog's scruffy fur to stabilize himself. As the boy and dog walked to the office door, Dumbledore turned to Jude who was still staring blankly ahead, still clasping her wounded hand to her chest. At a word from him, she jumped and stared up at him, reminding him so much of the lost little girl he'd taken in years and years ago. 

                "You understand why I wanted you here?" Dumbledore asked, favoring her with a warm, reassuring smile. 

                She nodded wearily. "Yes. I wanted to know what happened…and now I do. But it still doesn't feel real, Headmaster. Everything…feels just so…muddled." She was shaking her head, disbelieving…or not wanting to believe. "And I can't help feeling I did this."

                "He did this. And there was nothing any of us could have done differently. Nothing I could have done. Nothing you could have done." Dumbledore was surveying her thoughtfully as he spoke. She didn't seem to accept this, still feeling the weight of guilt. It was familiar, a comfort of sorts. Guilt was something she was used to, an anchor when everything seemed beyond her control. The only emotion that reminded her she could still feel.  If she could blame herself for not having acted, then it didn't mean that she was powerless, weak, a pawn. She needed to feel the blame for this. Dumbledore knew this and did not push it further. Motioning that they should follow, she stood wearily and left the office. Side by side, they walked in silence to the hospital wing, Harry and Black a few paces before them. No words were necessary between her and the Headmaster. Everything would remain the same. She could not fix it and he could not philosophize it away. 

                In a flurry of red, Jude watched passively and blankly as Mrs. Weasley rushed to embrace Harry the minute he stepped through the hospital wing doors. Dumbledore chastised her mildly, imploring her and the rest of her entourage to allow Harry some peaceful rest. She immediately rounded on her two sons and Hermione, warning them not to make a sound. Bill was there, Jude noted blandly, as Dumbledore informed them they would be permitted to stay if they chose. She once again retreated to the sidelines, hoping to remain out of the way, overlooked. Black, she noticed, was trying to do the same while still remaining close to Harry. Yet he did not escape Madam Pomfrey's hawk-like eyes. She expressed displeasure, but Dumbledore decreed the dog stayed and she made no further argument, helping Harry into bed. 

                Jude watched as the surrogate family settled themselves around Harry's bed, Madam Pomfrey bustling over with a small bottle of purple liquid. She poured it into a goblet and handed it to the boy. He took it numbly. 

                "You'll need to drink all of this, Harry," she instructed. "It's a potion for dreamless sleep." 

                He looked at the goblet blankly and then drank it. 

                Jude looked away from him reluctantly as Dumbledore came over to her. "I must find Fudge immediately," he told her gravely. She made no motion, but she was listening intently, he knew. "I will return as soon as I have spoken to him. Until then, might I impose on you to remain here?"

                "Of course, Professor," she answered in a dull monotone. He nodded once, looking shrewdly at her.

"When I return, I insist that you get some rest yourself." He patted her on the shoulder before he left. She felt the weight of his words, and what was unsaid within them. He knew she intended to seek Him out. To find Him. 

                After the Headmaster had gone, Madam Pomfrey bustled over to her, shaking her head disapprovingly, characteristically. Jude hadn't realized she'd balled her left hand into a fist, clamped to her chest with her other hand. But now that Madam Pomfrey was clucking with pity and asking her for a look, she noticed that it had been rather conspicuous for her to stand there holding her wounded hand, thinking that Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be curious. Reluctantly, she opened her fingers, surprised that it hurt so much. 

                "That's a nasty one," Madam Pomfrey appraised. "Let me get you something for it, hmm?" She received an acquiescent nod from Jude and scurried off to her office. 

                As the old nurse left, Jude heard raised voices down the corridor. She immediately stood straight and strained to hear. It sounded like McGonagall—McGonagall in a rage. And Fudge. She continued to listen, noting that they were approaching the hospital wing. She took a step nearer to the door. 

                "You should never have brought it inside the castle!" Professor McGonagall was yelling. "When Dumbledore finds out—,"

                To her right, the hospital doors slammed open. Jude could feel the vibration in the thick stone of the wall. She took a step away, keeping her eyes warily on the entrance. Fudge strode importantly up the ward. An irate Professor McGonagall strode in after him followed by Professor Snape. 

                "Where is Professor Dumbledore?" Fudge demanded, turning to Mrs. Weasley. 

                "He's not here," Mrs. Weasley replied angrily. "This is a hospital wing, Minister, don't you think you'd do better to—," 

                "What has happened?" Dumbledore asked, entering the ward, looking first to Jude, who remained stolid and unmoving. He glanced then to McGonagall. "Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I'm surprised at you—I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch." 

                "There's no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore!" she bellowed angrily at Fudge. "The Minister has seen to that!" Livid red splotches rising on her cheeks attested to her rage. Jude couldn't remember ever seeing the reserved, stern woman looked so venomous. 

                "When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight's events," Snape clarified, a calm counter to McGonagall's anger, "he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch…"

                McGonagall interrupted with another angry rant, finger pointing wildly at Fudge. "I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore! I told him you would never allow a dementor in the school, but…"

                Jude felt a sickened chill in her stomach as the argument turned into a revelation of Crouch, Jr.'s fate. She was shaking all over, her head spinning madly. The dementor could have been in the ward, for all Jude could tell. She felt as if it were. She squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth and waiting for the room to stop moving. A cold touch yanked her from her tormenting remembrances. Madam Pomfrey was shaking her head and muttering about the proper tone of voice to use in a hospital wing. 

                She held Jude's hand gently and upended a bottle of clear liquid on a snowy swath of gauze. Jude was immensely grateful for Madam Pomfrey's touch, it was grounding. The world wasn't spinning and her head wasn't fuzzy and throbbing anymore. The cold, sick, shivery feeling the thoughts of dementors brought had vanished just as quickly as they'd appeared. Madam Pomfrey was pressing the cold, wet material into her hand and folding her fingers in on it. She capped the bottle and smiled ruefully, bustling back to her office. Jude felt a bit restored, a bit more alert, but not much. The conversation slowly crept back into her conscious thoughts and she listened dully. 

                "Why he killed them? Well, that's no mystery, is it?" Fudge blustered, waving his hand dismissively. "He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's orders!"

                "He _was_ giving him orders," Jude said quietly. "He killed because he was instructed to. It was part of a plan to return Voldemort to full strength. And it worked," she intoned blandly, in a soulless monotone, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "Voldemort has been returned to His body." 

                She stood there, staring blankly at Fudge. She didn't notice his expression, but if she had, she would have been pleased at her accomplishment. He looked as if he'd just been smacked in the face by a filthy little street urchin—he was dazed and blinking swiftly as if he could dispel the shock quicker with the movement. Turning abruptly, he faced Dumbledore, seeming to crackle with a controlled rage. 

                "You-Know-Who…returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore…it cannot be so! It is a lie!" He was looking emphatically to Dumbledore to contradict her. Jude watched as Dumbledore attempted to explain tonight's events through Fudge's disbelief, but she only saw his lips moving. Clear words were muffled to a sonorous din, indistinguishable sounds. She watched, numb, standing as if on reflex only. Her arms hung loosely at her sides and she had not realize she'd let the cool cloth Madam Pomfrey had pressed to her hand slip between her fingers and fall to the ground. It was only when someone bent to pick it up and replace it over her blistered palm that she'd realized she'd dropped it. 

Professor Snape retrieved the white gauze wordlessly and held it to her hand. Through the thin material, he could feel her pulse racing. Surveying her, only now did he realize how terrible she looked. Numb, blank and absent on the outside, he knew she was in turmoil. And that could only mean one thing: that she'd answered his call. She had gone to him when he'd beckoned. Yet she was here now. It didn't make sense—he should have easily killed Potter and he didn't; He should have been able to finish her as well, but she was alive. Mind reeling, he tried to search for an explanation but none came. She, at least, was more of a threat to him alive than dead. Surely he knew she was beyond his control now…But there had to be another explanation…for both her and the boy. 

Frowning, he forced himself to pay attention to Fudge and Dumbledore. The questions that eluded answer could wait for now, he thought, still holding her shaking hand. 

"You'll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I've never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before…" Fudge said incredulously. 

Snape felt Jude flinch, but looking at her, he saw she remained calm, blank. She was listening intently and reacting impulsively to what was said, while showing none of it. She reminded him of the curious and stoical little spy she'd been years before. Maybe she still was. 

"Look, I saw Voldemort come back!" Harry shouted. He kicked the blankets off and tried to stand, but Mrs. Weasley and Bill forced him back. "I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy—,"

Fudge blustered as Harry continued to shout names. Jude felt a small smile turn the corner of her lips for the first time that evening. She was reminded of herself, pointlessly shouting those very same names, knowing that she would not be believed for one instant, even though she was telling the truth. Honestly, she didn't know why any of them tried. Fudge wouldn't be convinced even if Voldemort walked into the hospital wing in that same instant and shook his hand. He was blind to it all—the only thing he saw was declining public approval of his office and a slipping image, his thirteen years of peace tarnished like grubby silver. Nothing she or any one of them could say would convince him. 

"Voldemort has returned," Dumbledore repeated. "If you accept that fact straightaway, Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors—,"

"Preposterous!" Fudge exclaimed. "Remove the dementors? I'd be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!"

                "The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort's most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!" Dumbledore countered passionately. "They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!"

                "The second step you must take—and at once," Dumbledore urged the astounded Minister, "is to send an envoy to the giants."

                "Envoy to the giants?" Fudge shrieked, flabbergasted. "What madness is this?" 

                "Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it's too late," the Headmaster said, "or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and freedom!"

                "You…you cannot be serious!" Fudge bellowed, turning purple. "People hate them, Dumbledore…end of my career!"

                "You are blinded," Dumbledore said judiciously, his eyes blazing, "by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! I tell you now—take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in or out of office, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act—and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!"

                Madam Pomfrey was standing at the foot of Harry's bed, hand over her mouth, Mrs. Weasley, like wise, shocked, her hand still on Harry's shoulder. Bill, Ron and Hermione were staring, wide-eyed at Fudge. The tension in the room was palpable. 

                "If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, quiet, yet electric, "we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I—I shall act as I see fit."

                Fudge turned fully to face Dumbledore, bristling like an angered cat. "I've given you free reign, always. I've had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions," he paused and looked pointedly at Jude, who tensed but retained her cold, blank exterior, "but I've kept quiet. There aren't many who'd have let your hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reverence to the Ministry. Or worse! But if you're going to work against me—,"

                "The only one against whom I intend to work," Dumbledore said plainly, "is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side."

                Fudge stood, looking bewildered. He stepped from one foot to the other, twisting his bowler hat in his stubby hands, staring at Dumbledore. With a hint of a plea in his voice, he stammered, "He can't be back, Dumbledore, he just can't be…"

                Pressing the white cloth into her hand and closing her fingers around it, Snape let her hand go and stepped forward. Jude watched, frowning, unsure of what was going on. Pulling up the left sleeve of his robe, he held out his forearm and showed Fudge, who recoiled with disgust. 

                "There," he said harshly, the hint of a smirk at his lips. "There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. This mark has been growing clearer all year."

                Fudge stepped back, repulsed, apparently not having heard a word he'd said. He turned, lost for words, to Dumbledore. He stammered, "I don't know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I will have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry." He crammed his bowler hat tensely on his head, awkwardly deposited Harry's winnings on the bedside table and strode pompously out the door, ignoring Jude pointedly, even though she watched his every move quietly as a cat. 

                "Well, there's work to be done," he said, surveying the shocked faces around him. 

                Professor Snape returned to Jude's side, taking the gauze from her hand and studying her wound. "That was amusing," was his only comment as he wrapped her hand in the thin, soft material. 

                "You shouldn't have done that, you know?" she said with an exhausted sigh. "You were on his good side before that."

                He nodded with a smirk and dropped her hand. She let it fall wearily. They listened as Dumbledore turned to Mrs. Weasley. 

                "Molly…am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?"

                "Of course you can," said Mrs. Weasley, ghostly pale, but speaking cheerfully as if nothing had happened beyond an unpleasant disagreement. "We know what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride."

                "Then I need to send a message to Arthur," Dumbledore spoke urgently, turning to Jude. "All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius."

                "I'll go to Dad," said Bill, standing up from his chair at Harry's bedside. 

                "Excellent!" Dumbledore said, turning to Bill. "Miss Elliot will go with you to tell him what has happened. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry—," 

                "Leave it to me," Bill said as Jude nodded. As he said his goodbyes, kissing his mother on the cheek and clapping Harry on the shoulder, Dumbledore strode quickly over to Jude, an expression bearing the utmost urgency on his face. 

                "I need you to explain what has happened tonight to Arthur. Get him on our side. And when you are done, I need you to come straight back to me," she nodded without feeling. He held her gaze steadily, gravely as if he were trying to see beyond, into her thoughts. Jude never liked when he did that. "I need you to come straight back, Jude. We cannot afford to divide our forces now. Do not go after him tonight." She nodded again, this time convincingly. 

                Bill came up behind the Headmaster, looking to Jude over his shoulder. "Ready, then?" 

                And without a word, she forced her exhausted and aching body to move, following Bill out the door, eager to get this last assignment over and done with. 

***

                Jude stood in the middle of a cozy sitting room, filled to capacity with faded, overstuffed sofas and chairs, a dozen colorful knitted blankets thrown over them. The worn wallpaper could hardly be seen—almost every inch of it was hidden behind mismatched frames of every size bearing pictures. Pictures of every sort of happiness, kids waving, smiling; pictures of redheads playing Quidditch, running with kite strings in their tiny fists. Jude stared at the pictures wondering if there ever was a time that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were without a camera—they seemed to have captured every moment of each child's life, now displayed nostalgically all over the room. In every room—lining the stairs, on tables, over mantles and even one of the entire clan in a small frame next to a potted daisy on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Everyone looked happy, cherished. 

                Intermingled with smiling Weasley faces, there was the most intriguing hodgepodge of gadgets, knickknacks, baubles and oddities imaginable. The whole of the house seemed to exude a sort of cozy abandon to convention—a comforting disregard for what was normal, or acceptable. A happy abandon. An aesthetic disarray. As Jude looked around cautiously, feeling conspicuous in the cheery rooms, Bill dropped his cloak on a chair by the scrubbed wooden table and bustled about to light some candles. 

                "Right then, just make yourself at home and I'll run up to fetch Dad," Bill said, turning to glance at a large clock on the wall behind him. "Says he's here. Must be sleeping."

                Jude frowned, taking a second look at the clock Bill had so oddly consulted, surprised to find that it was no clock at all. Instead of two hands, it had nine: seven labeled with the name of a Weasley child, two bearing the names "Arthur" and "Molly." The hands marked "Arthur" and "Bill" pointed straight at the spot termed "Home." Jude stared at the ingenious gadget, walking over to take a closer look. There was a hand labeled "Percy" that remained fixed on the point designated "Work," the various other hands were clustered pointing toward the word "School."  She read each word that replaced the twelve numbers of a normal clock, each one becoming more outlandish than the last. The final word decreed its spot to be "Mortal Peril," and Jude's eyes went wide to see a hand of the clock fixed on it. The hand was Charlie's. 

                "And Mum's still there with him," Jude heard Bill's voice from the hallway. "She'll be there until tomorrow. But there's something else." Bill entered the small kitchen followed by a bleary-eyed but pleasant-looking man in pajamas and a robe. Jude was still staring at the clock as he came in. He immediately saw her expression and laughed. She frowned, turning to him, confused as to why his brother's "Mortal Peril" was amusing. "Charlie works with dragons, Jude. His hand is always there. Although your reaction reminds me a bit of Mum's the first week Charlie was on the job." He smiled and clapped her lightly on the shoulder. She turned and shook hands with a tired but very interested Mr. Weasley. 

                "Dad," Bill said, "this is Jude, a friend of mine from school and one of Dumbledore's most trusted teachers." 

                Jude said nothing, a bit embarrassed by Bill's grand ideas of her. As it was, she really was none of the above. She was an acquaintance maybe, not a friend of his. She didn't have friends in school. And she certainly wouldn't call herself one of Dumbledore's most trusted. 

                "A teacher? Really! What subject," Mr. Weasley asked, with genuine interest. 

                "Muggle Studies," Jude answered simply. However, she had not expected this revelation to elicit such a reaction. Mr. Weasley beamed at her, asking her all sorts of questions like a curious child. She immediately liked the man. 

                "So, what exactly is a jumper cable?" he asked finally. 

                "Dad," Bill said indulgently. "Important things, remember?" 

                "Oh, yes, yes," he said, retreating to the cozy room with the mismatched furniture and the knitted blankets. "Have a seat, have a seat. It seems a lot has happened. A lot." He was nodding absently, pondering something, Jude guessed, of what Bill had told him already. Jude took a seat opposite Mr. Weasley, still studying him as he organized his thoughts. He looked up suddenly with a smile and turned to his son. "Bill would you mind? I think we could all do with a bit of tea." 

                Bill frowned unhappily, but stood and headed to the kitchen to do as he was told. Jude heard the clatter of dishes in the next room. 

                "Well, my dear. From what I gathered from my son, he is back." Mr. Weasley held only a fraction of the childishness that had so disarmed her a few minutes ago. He now proved that he was a man to be taken seriously, and his frankness and lack of reserve with her earned him Jude's respect. She nodded in somber answer to his statement. 

                "You aren't talking about anything important without me, are you?" Bill's voice warned from the kitchen followed by more clatter. 

                Mr. Weasley smiled at Jude and ignored him. "Do you know how it happened?" 

                Jude nodded. "I do. Crouch Jr. was impersonating Moody the whole year. He's not dead. And he was acting for Voldemort to get Harry to Him. Dumbledore can give you the particulars tomorrow. He has promised to be in contact with you as soon as possible. But it seems we no longer have proof of this…Crouch Jr. is dead. Well…as good as dead," she amended thoughtfully. "Fudge had a dementor with him when he…questioned him," Jude said with biting derision. 

                "Fudge? Really?" Mr. Weasley said skeptically. He believed what he was hearing, but was shocked nonetheless. He'd always thought Dumbledore had more power over Fudge than that. But even now it seemed that Fudge would do things his own way despite his wise counselor's advice. He knew he would do it someday, eventually. 

                "He will not accept the fact that Voldemort has returned to power, resurrected Himself…" Jude informed him bluntly, getting to the chase. "He has His body once more…and Fudge will not act with Dumbledore to prevent…it…from happening all over again."

                "He's pretending as if nothing happened, Dad," Bill said, picking up the conversation as he entered with a tray, balancing a teapot and three charmingly mismatched cups. "Thinks the deaths are only the work of some lunatic, convinced he was serving You-Know-Who. Lucky for him he had the…er…evidence destroyed." Bill handed Jude a cup before taking a seat next to his father. They both stared at her like a jury examining a witness. She looked down at the steaming tea in her hand instead. 

                "Well, maybe Fudge is right," Bill said finally, shaking his head. "Suppose Crouch really was crazy, just killing people for fun?" 

                Jude didn't look up, but shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "He is not crazy…not in that sense anyway. He's back…Voldemort's back." She raised her eyes from her hand and surveyed both of them. They stared back in curiosity. "I know. I saw Him."

                "You did?" they said in unison, Bill startled and Mr. Weasley fascinated. 

                She nodded. "The Cup was a Portkey. By the time I realized it, Harry was already gone so I ran like hell to get to him. But I got there too late. He'd already escaped. But Voldemort was there…He was…not really…well, the same, but He was solid—He has His body back."

                "How did you know…" Mr. Weasley was looking at her, confused. 

                "Where to find Him?" Jude asked, a regretful smile emerging from under the frown on her face. She sighed, trying to find the words to explain this. 

                "She was one of them, Dad," Bill said slowly, a hint of apprehension in his voice. He looked quickly in her direction and saw her frowning, staring at the worn rug. 

                A look of realization dawned on Mr. Weasley's face. "Good heavens…Elliot, your name is Elliot. Well, yes, then this all makes sense now," he exclaimed happily, even more fascination alight in his tone. 

                Jude was alarmed at first, but as Mr. Weasley seemed to care little more for her past than Bill did, she relaxed slightly. She sensed he understood that they were all on the same side, no further explanation necessary. She was grateful. Ruefully, she commented, "You must have worked for the Ministry for quite a long time then, Mr. Weasley…at least thirteen years, to know a bit of information like that."

                He nodded, pleased. "Almost thirty years," he confirmed proudly. "And in only these last thirteen, as you have said, have we known peace. I cannot imagine another reign of terror under that madman. Please tell me there is something that can be done? Surely it isn't too late for that…even without Fudge's cooperation."

                "No," Jude said, shaking her head, "I don't think it's too late to try. He has returned to His body, or a frail representation," she said quietly, looking down at her bandaged hand. "But I don't think He's regained His full power. Certainly not invincible." She thought about her relatively easy escape from Him in Little Hangleton. Weaker, but still strong enough to kill…certainly—He'd already proven that tonight. 

                "Well, Dad? What do you think?" Bill asked after a period of silence. 

                Mr. Weasley frowned. "Of course Dumbledore can count on me, but I'll have to ask around quietly at the Ministry. There are plenty of those who think Fudge an imbecile but how many of those people are willing to act…I couldn't guess. And I'm assuming Dumbledore wants me to remain quiet on this…as much as possible?"

                Jude nodded. 

                "Do you know what he plans to do? Dumbledore means to act straightaway, am I right?" Mr. Weasley asked. 

                "I do know that he plans an envoy to the giants…I don't know, Mr. Weasley…but Dumbledore sounded worried…I mean…the giants! This sounds big. If he acts, it will only be after much thought. The stakes are pretty high." 

                He nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "Well, let him know that whatever he does intend to do, he has my support and as many as I can pull over to our side at the Ministry."

                Jude stood, setting her untouched tea on the edge of a nicked and dented table covered in more framed pictures, following Mr. Weasley's lead, shaking his hand. "Thank you, really, Mr. Weasley…for everything."

                "Don't mention it, my dear. I am honored that he thought of me," he smiled warmly at her before turning to his son. "Well, it's late, Bill," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I better get to bed, hmmm?" He winked at Bill, heading for the creaky, winding stairs. "Lovely to meet you, Miss Elliot," he called to her from the first step. "You must come back sometime and see my collection of plugs and outlets." 

                Jude smiled and bid him a good night. 

                "Well," Bill said, shaking his head, "he can be a bit much sometimes." 

                "He's wonderful, Bill," Jude said immediately. "Your parents…this house…" she said, smiling wistfully. "You must have had a happy childhood." Looking around, she walked over to a picture of two boys making fearsome faces at the camera and flexing their scrawny arms. Bill and Charlie, she recognized. "It must have been so much fun…all these brothers…and a sister."

                "Yeah," he said, coming to stand next to her in front of the picture. "But sometimes I bet it's nice to be alone."

                She shrugged, not wanting to reply to that, trying to remain cheerful. All around her there was so much happiness, so much vibrant life throughout the rickety, hodgepodge home—such a stark contrast to the austere and grand halls of Hogwarts…or the cold, stern beauty of the Abbey. Or the worn, depressing blandness of the orphanage—the only homes she could think of in comparison. 

                "You know, when I said you haven't changed…I lied," Bill said suddenly. 

                Jude looked at him, quickly abandoning her distraction, noticing that he'd been studying her for some minutes. She fought not to blush. 

                "You have changed," he said finally, frowning at her. 

                Jude furrowed her brow, confused. "How do you mean?" 

                "You seem sadder somehow," he said, and then looked away sharply, remorseful for having said it. "What I mean is…you used to smile a bit more." 

                She paused and then nodded slowly. "I guess if I ever did it would have been then," she said simply. With a sigh, she added, "A lot has happened since school…a lot." Her lips were turned down in an unhappy frown. 

                "Well," Bill said, placing a hand under her chin, bringing her eyes up to his, "I liked your smile."

                He dropped his hand, smiling a bit ruefully and she smirked slightly, awkwardly. If she had an honest smile left, she would give it to him…but she didn't have any more…didn't think she ever would. Pressing her lips together in thought, she spoke quietly, regretfully. "You know, this is all probably going to get a lot worse before it gets better."

                He nodded. "I know," he said gravely. He knew what she meant. It was a goodbye. He took a step away from her, looking down at the rug. Then he glanced up sharply at her and spoke with a sincere urgency. "Listen, Jude. You haven't let me be your friend in the past, but I hope you will now. And as a friend, I'm telling you this: take care of yourself first out there, okay? Don't do anything crazy."

                She shook her head. It was uncanny how he knew exactly what was going on. She knew what was next—spying…hunting. He knew it, too. She took his warning to heart, feeling his somewhat naïve sincerity. It was strange…she'd always pegged him as a bit shallow…always trying to befriend her for some egotistical, Gryffindor do-gooder binge. But maybe, she thought, that she was too cynical for her own good. He was concerned about her, and she was not completely cold-hearted—it did mean something to her. 

                "Thank you, Bill," she managed awkwardly, not really knowing how to respond, before she Apparated. 

***

                "Professor?" she said, peering into the dimly lit office. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, head in hands, weary. He looked up as she came in. 

                "Ah, and how did it go?" he asked with none of his accustomed spirit. 

                "He accepts. I told him you would contact him as soon as possible," she said, collapsing into a chair. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the questions she'd intended to pose to the Headmaster…the questions Mr. Weasley had asked her. Then glancing sideways, she remembered. "Professor, what do you intend to do now?" 

                He nodded. "Yes, I know you are eager for action. But our foe is cunning. Strategy is of the utmost importance."  
                "I know," she snapped impatiently. Then brushing a hand across her eyes, she frowned. Dumbledore remained silent, watching her. She knew she was out of line. She was just tense, tired and angry…it wasn't Dumbledore's fault and she knew it. "Sorry, Professor," she said quietly. 

                Still examining her judiciously, he explained that he'd already dispatched Sirius to gather some necessary allies. "We must gain numbers. He holds the advantage now…although the strength of his forces still remains unknown." He folded his hands under his chin and looked at her pointedly. "I will need someone steadfastly faithful, uncommonly skillful and…uncannily transparent," Dumbledore said pointedly, his attention fixed on her. "I need…a spy."

                She sat still, unmoving and unmoved. "My cover has been blown…for about thirteen years now, Headmaster," she said, her humor scathing. She wanted to take action against Voldemort now. She was impatient for revenge and Dumbledore's meticulous need for precision, knowledge and strategy bugged her. But he was the boss, she reminded herself diligently. What he said was as good as law to her. 

                He smiled benevolently despite her antagonistic comments. "I have a plan," he announced grandly and cryptically. She frowned, intrigued. "Mind you, it is entirely outside the realm and the scope of the law…and quite risky."

                She raised her eyebrows, even more intrigued. Danger, lawbreaking…hell, it sounded right up her ally. "What is it?" she asked, confused. 

                Leaning back wearily in his chair, he surveyed her carefully. "I will require your full attention to do this, my dear. Shall we leave it for the morning? I'm sure we could both do with a decent rest."

Author's Note: I waited until the end for this one, folks. A couple of you (Black Dragon and Paru-Chan) have asked me not to kill Cedric. I know as the all-powerful author, I have the ability to play God with these characters, but a stipulation I set for myself when I began writing this piece was not to alter canon as much as possible. So I had to do it, guys. I hope you forgive me! It wasn't to spite either of you, although it was a brilliant idea to save Cedric and let Harry die, Black Dragon. I just couldn't do it, even though I loved Cedric's character and felt his death much when I first read _The Goblet of Fire_. I just wanted to let you, dear readers, know that it wasn't personal. 

Next up! 'The Plan' is revealed and Dumbledore has one more requirement for Jude to fulfill before she can begin her hunt for Voldemort. A few bridges will be shaken if (if not burned) and I begin my own plot for the summer preceding fifth year! 


	41. Waiting For Daylight

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original characters/situations are the property of the author. 

Chapter Forty-One: Waiting For Daylight

_'Things have never been so swell_

_I have never failed to fail…'_

Nirvana, You Know You're Right 

                "Good morning," the Headmaster greeted her, smiling and looking unfittingly well rested at ten in the morning after a night like last night. 

                Jude rubbed her neck, glaring at the professor, and fell into a chair by his tidy desk. She was sore all over—it even hurt to blink. Her hand throbbed, but she ignored it glancing up at Dumbledore, waiting expectantly for the revelation he promised her this morning. "So what's the plan?" 

                His eyes twinkled sprite-like with something of the old Dumbledore in them once more. Last night, Jude recalled, she had seen a side of the professor that was rarely seen by any. Righteous anger, palpable and potentially dangerous power—it was frightening to be reminded just how powerful the saintly old man was. And even though the weight of last night's events still shone in the weary lines of his face, the kindly and wise man was returning to dominate the sadness and anger. 

                She on the other hand…she still felt the strong tug of what had happened. It hung around her neck like an enormous whet stone, never allowing her one moment's rest from the guilt she felt…always present, always nagging at her. She was still exhausted, and this added to her desperation to be relieved of the weight…the responsibility she felt…the guilt. 

                She sighed and leaned back lazily in the chair, waiting for Dumbledore to divulge his brilliant plan to turn the tide that had nearly swept them all so suddenly last night. And by the look of the Headmaster, Jude knew it was brilliant. 

                "As I have told you, I need someone to locate Voldemort. I need to know where he is, what he is planning. And I need you to find him." 

                She nodded succinctly, no change in her expression. This was what she'd expected. 

                "However, in order to accomplish this with the highest regard for safety, we are forced to break a few rules," he said, a mischievous smile dispelling a bit of the gloom that still hung over him. "Consequently, the Minister has seen fit to ignore the danger Voldemort has placed us in, therefore, I do not hesitate to…operate outside of the law." He stood, staring at her evenly. "I need an Animagus."

                Her expression attested to her fleeting confusion at the professor's words but she saw where this was going. He needed her eyes and ears, but for her to see and hear everything that went on in a reasonable distance around Voldemort, she would need to be practically invisible…invisible and without a human will. It was true. She had feared this ever since she'd left Him. He could feel her, sense her near Him…and He could, in the days of His full power at least, subject her will to His own. Now that He was back to human strength, if not fully possessed of His once staggering powers, this was cause to worry. But, she reasoned, she was no longer a complacent child that was easily dazzled with pretty words and kind sentiments. She was stronger. 

                Still, the thought of spying on Him while she remained possessed of her human self unnerved her. The last thing she would ever do if she could help it was return to Him. To betray Dumbledore. Slowly puzzling this newest idea of his, she reluctantly nodded. It would work admirably. Easily concealed, and not likely to turn on her allies. It was a brilliant plan, she thought, noting Dumbledore's satisfaction with his idea. And she got to pull one over on Fudge and break the law to boot. Her day was looking up. 

                As she thought on this new development Dumbledore surveyed her judiciously. "I need you to be off by tomorrow evening at the latest, so if you don't feel you are up to the task today, we can wait…"

                She looked up sharply at this, protesting instantly. "No," she said a bit hastily, Dumbledore staring, somewhat startled. "I'm just a bit tired, but I can handle it, trust me," she finished, compelled to do this immediately. The weight of the guilt she felt over Cedric, over not being there for Harry…she felt she needed to begin her penance for her mistakes as soon as she could. She needed to take some kind of action. Every second that she did nothing made her feel that weary guilt more acutely. 

                "Are you absolutely sure?" Dumbledore asked her cautiously. "Because we have time…" 

                "No," she said firmly. "I'm definitely sure. I've done this before and a bit of lost sleep's not about to stop me." She stood, resolute and held the Headmaster's studious gaze evenly. She closed her eyes and concentrated…hard. Setting up mental blocks, she tried to keep the nagging guilt, the obsessive need to redeem herself and every other distracting thought at bay. Her hands were shaking, she squeezed her eyes shut with more force this time, gritting her teeth. She tried to clear her mind, focusing on small, inconspicuous figures, animals small and common, but without allowing her mind to settle there. It had been ages since she'd done this and now she was regretting not taking the Headmaster up on his offer to wait. She was exhausted and that fatigue now crept into every bone in her body. Her knees were wobbling, threatening to tumble her. A panicky feeling was growing, her mind warning her that she wasn't ready for something this draining, this complicated. A voice in her head told her that she was hopelessly stubborn, willful and too confident in her own ability…in her own knowledge. She tried fiercely to ignore it, but she knew that it was right. And it mocked her, told her she couldn't do it. 

                Falling to her knees, she took deep breaths, feeling the sting of the stone connect, but it was not the dull ache she would normally feel from collapsing onto a hard surface. She was exhausted, winded, dizzy. She didn't want to open her eyes, knowing that she'd failed, unable to concentrate long enough to see it through. She had let the thin chord of the spell snap like a silken thread. Finally she did open her eyes. And what she saw baffled her completely.

                Two scenes at once. The left side of Dumbledore's austere yet inviting office, and the right. What the hell! She looked around and noticed that nothing lined up, but her vision was excellent. Sharper, more precise, clearly detailed even on the smallest of objects. Turning her head further, she saw Dumbledore staring back at her…and he was smiling. It didn't make any sense to her. She couldn't make out what was going on and was about to voice her concern, when she was startled by a loud, cacophonous bird's squawk, harsh and shrill, when she opened her mouth. 

                Dumbledore was laughing mildly at this. "Well done, well done. McGonagall would have been proud," he was saying, surveying her with a pleased look. "Now that you have proven yourself beyond my expectations once again, Miss Elliot…if you wouldn't mind? I have yet one more item of importance to discuss." He was retreating behind his desk, beckoning her to return to her seat. Instantly, she resumed her human shape, staring confusedly back at him. 

                "But…I don't understand. It worked…but…I'm a bird!" she stammered, frowning.

                "Yes. A magnificent raven, my dear. An excellent form," he said equably. 

                "But…it doesn't make any sense. These things can't be controlled, I know…but somehow…oh, this is really bad," she said, growing angry. 

                The Headmaster furrowed his brow. "I think I may have missed something. What is the matter?"

                Jude's frown deepened as she fell back into her chair. Embarrassed, she reluctantly admitted that she was afraid to fly. 

                He was sufficiently amused by this, but her expression grew darker. 

                "I'm rubbish at it! It's terrifying!" she protested. 

                Dumbledore tried to quell her anxiety, checking his humor at her situation. "Yes, but it is natural for a bird. It will be no problem at all, you'll see."

                She huffed and crossed her arms moodily over her chest, not inclined to believe him at the moment. Instead of fuming on this more, she changed the subject quickly. "So what was the important item we must discuss?" she asked conspiratorially. 

                His expression suddenly darkened causing Jude to sit up abruptly, searching the Headmaster's face for a hint of what had affected the change. It was something big, she could tell. And something that she was not bound to like one bit. She watched the professor intently as he spoke. 

                Taking a deep breath, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. "This is going to be a difficult task, you already know this. I have asked many more I trust to make equally great sacrifices, and I do not take this responsibility lightly, I assure you. Just as I trust you, just as I trust everyone I have taken into my confidence…I need you to trust each other. To face Voldemort and his legions, I need a team. A team that trusts."

                He was staring pointedly at her, but she did not know how to respond. He took another deep breath and continued. "Anything can be exploited by Voldemort if we allow him that opportunity. Any wedge that he can drive between us he will. We are already divided—Fudge has turned a blind eye and we must fight alone. We are so few in number that the loss of one may affect us all…"

                Jude furrowed her brow. "What are you saying, Professor…?"

                He rubbed his eyes once more. "I am telling you that it is imperative that you keep nothing from those who will have to rely on you…and you rely on them in return. You have to tell Remus and Sirius, Jude. You have to tell them everything."

                Wide-eyed, she stared at him, silent, imploring. Slowly, she shook her head. "I…can't, Professor. I can't tell them…Remus will hate me. And Black…I'm the reason he went to prison. No." She was shaking her head more vehemently now, frowning deeply. 

                "I am afraid this is not a choice, Jude," Dumbledore said simply, regretfully. 

                "But…I work alone…this doesn't have to be an issue," she stammered, desperately looking for a way out. 

                "I can't take that chance. None of us can. Who knows who may be privy to such information now? Karkaroff…Peter Pettegrew…and anyone they've already told. It is not a risk I would expose you or anyone else to. He could use this to turn even the most trustworthy of friends against you, Jude. You know he would do it. You have not the option to decline. I insist you tell them before you leave." 

                She glanced around the room, desperate, as if looking for a way out. Finally, she stopped her frantic motions, staring evenly at Dumbledore and nodded once before burying her face in her hands, wishing that everything would just vanish, go away, leave her alone. "Okay," she consented with a dejected finality. 

***

                The letter had been sent off with one of the dull, common brown school owls. Now all that was left was to wait. And to find someone who would definitely be on her side. Just thinking of setting herself up willingly for a fall left a tense knot of dread in her stomach. She knew she couldn't tell them everything alone. Them against her. She wanted someone on her side. 

                "You're such a coward," she chastised herself as she walked down the corridor, Darcy at her heels. She took a flight of stairs downward to the dungeons. Stopping at a door she knocked and received a terse reply granting her entry. She opened the door, peeking in cautiously. He was there, sitting behind his desk, bent over a stack of papers, but he looked up as she came in. Darcy trotted in with little ceremony, heading straight for the strange and grotesque jars and vials of mysterious liquids, not a few that had pickled animals or other specimens submerged in them. 

                Jude dropped into a chair, avoiding the professor's curious and cautious stare. It seemed they both had something to say, but neither wanted to be the one to break the awkward silence. She watched Darcy, unconscious of the miserable frown darkening her whole expression. Slouching in the chair, she tried to come up with the best way to tell him, and wondering whether or not he would agree to be there when she told them. He probably wouldn't, she supposed, paying little attention to anything else in the room. She guessed she deserved to be alone…to face them by herself. After all, she was responsible for the death of their best friend. She just wished she had more time. Exhausted, depressed and distracted, she was a bit angry with Dumbledore for insisting she do it this day. The guilt of Cedric's death weighted her like stones dragging her underwater. And now this on top of it all. 

                "It's not your fault, Jude."

                She looked up sharply, caught off guard by his statement. He was still staring pointedly at her, studying her expression. 

                "Everyone knows you did what you could…everyone that matters. No one blames you for Mr. Diggory's death and it doesn't do you any good to blame yourself," he said unceremoniously. 

                She shook her head slowly, wearily. "No. I knew there was something going on, but I ignored it. You know, I don't know why Dumbledore continues to rely on me as he does. There hasn't been a time where I have not failed him. Or Harry."

                He allowed her to speak, patiently listening. "Potter's alive because of you," he said with finality. "You've put your neck on the line for that boy more than he deserves. He nor Dumbledore could ask more from you than what you have done already."

                A weary, sardonic smirk broke her frown momentarily. "He does deserve more, though. I owe that boy everything I have," she said quietly, staring blankly back at the professor. "Because once upon a time I took everything he had." 

                He furrowed his brows and glared back at her, bewildered. "What do you mean?" he asked, curious but skeptical. 

                With a weary sigh, she confessed. "I killed his father," she said blandly, without feeling, eerily calm. "And I couldn't stop Him from murdering his mother." 

                Staring at her with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, he listened to her strange revelation. "You?" he asked after a pause. "You killed James Potter?" He was frowning, deep in thought. "How? I thought that He no longer held sway over you…not enough to make you…"

                She wore a blank expression. Shrugging, she frowned thoughtfully and said, "He gave an order and I obeyed."

                "I still don't understand how…" He was staring at his folded hands now, trying to piece the story together. "How did you get from there to here, then?" he asked. 

                "When I did it…when I killed him, I don't know…something snapped. I could feel it," she said with a bit more emotion coloring her monotone indifference. She no longer seemed mindless or robotic, but a bit cold and distant. "I didn't want to do that ever again."

                He nodded slowly, still frowning at her. 

                "And I didn't want Him to do that to anyone else…now that I saw…I felt…I couldn't let Him do that to another person. But I was a fool to think I could stop Him," she said with a bitter shadow of a smile. "He killed her anyway." 

                "And then…"

                She nodded. "I still haven't figured out what did it. I thought…" she said, but trailed off. Shaking her head, she dispelled the idea. "I don't know what happened."

                He narrowed his eyes at her, studying her curiously. No one had an inkling of what exactly had stripped Voldemort of his powers that night. Knowing now that she had actually been present, a witness to the event, possibly made her the best bet at ever understanding what happened. And from the look of it, she honestly didn't know, or she wasn't going to tell. He let it pass. 

                Staring at her hands, she didn't speak for sometime. Then cautiously, she looked up at the professor. "I have to tell them."

                "When?"

                "I owled them earlier. They should be here soon," she said, her voice betraying the slightest hesitation. "Dumbledore said I had to do it now. I don't suppose you'd come with me, would you?" she asked tentatively, biting her lip nervously and glancing from him to her hands, fidgeting distractedly. 

                "Of course," he answered simply. 

***

                "A bird," she said, trying to make light of it although her nerves were raw and agitated. "I couldn't believe it." She shook her head, squinting against the late afternoon summer sun. He suggested a walk about the castle grounds to pass the time and to calm her tense anxiety. It was working a little. 

                "You hate flying," he said pointedly. 

                "I know, but I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" she said grudgingly. "I can't imagine you're not in on this grand scheme to finally nail the bastard," she said, turning to the professor, hoping to deflect the attention from herself. "What is your bit in all of this?" 

                He hesitated before answering. "Well, it hasn't really been worked out yet. Fudge has kept Crouch, Jr. classified, so Dumbledore has discovered. We think he'd make a good cover."

                She stopped her pacing and stared at him, doubtful. "You're going in? As Crouch?" she asked, disbelieving. 

                He only nodded. 

                "Does Voldemort know…about anything that happened to him? I can't imagine He would, but what if word got out before Fudge could stop up any leaks?" asked Jude, growing more skeptical. 

                "Well, that's one of the bits we need your help on," he said tersely. 

                "Oh, right. But what if He knows? You can't use Crouch if He does…and if He finds out…well, I mean, you weren't His favorite person after…" she said, letting the sentence remain unfinished. He knew the dangers just as she did. It didn't really help to enumerate them. And she noticed a pair of shadowy figures in the twilight. Darcy bounded over to them and she knew immediately who it was. One was a large black dog. 

                "Meet you in McGonagall's classroom," she said to Professor Snape succinctly, walking toward the two figures that had been joined by Darcy. Professor Snape nodded his concession and turned back to the castle. 

                Darcy bristled and growled at the big black dog, but kept her distance. Jude called her and she obediently sat at her feet, still watching the curious figures excitedly. Jude watched with none of Darcy's enthusiasm, a growing tension becoming stronger. She waved briefly in return, trying to muster a smile. 

                "Hey," Remus ventured tentatively when he was close enough to be heard. She looked terrible, tired, on edge and, what was worse, she looked guilt ridden. Sirius had already explained to him everything that had happened and he had fought the urge to find her, to comfort her. So he didn't interfere, it was probably for the best, he justified. "How are you?" He settled on this question instead to dispel his anxiety over her. 

"Fine," she lied blandly. "So," she said lightly, trying to make some semblance of normal conversation, but feeling the failure of it already. "How's the article coming along?" 

"Finished, actually," he answered her, pleased.

She looked at him, wide eyed and with a genuine interest. She knew how much this meant to him. "Really? When?"

"Two days ago," he said, his expression faltering a bit. "It actually made it into a few issues before they pulled it." He was still smiling but there was a hint of disappointment in it. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jude ventured. 

"I'm not," he exclaimed, amused with the outcome. "I knew what would happen. And it's not like unemployment is something new and different for me." He added with a smirk, "The only thing I regret is that I didn't knick one of the few copies before I left. And that they destroyed my notes."

"Well," she said equably, "someone pulling strings for the_ Prophet _must have felt some heat from a name in your article."

"A few, actually. Many names I know off hand are associated with that paper," he said knowingly. 

"Who?" she asked with heightened curiosity. 

"Lucius Malfoy, to be sure. Numerous other of his cronies." He shrugged, as if it was of little concern. "At least now they know that someone knows." 

"Yeah," Jude said tentatively. "Someone who's willing to expose them. That's a dangerous position to be in, you know?"

He grinned. "I know." Black trotted down the hall behind them like an obedient pet, no doubt a bit eager to reach the room and end the unparalleled humiliation. But Jude was fairly oblivious to him as Remus continued. "I made backups of my notes, though. People need to hear what we know…now more than ever."

Jude nodded. "If I can help in any way, just let me know. I won't be around for a while," she added hesitantly. "You weren't the only one who lost his job, you know," she finished ruefully. 

"Dumbledore sacked you? You're kidding me?" He stared at her, wide-eyed and shocked.

"More like reassigned," she corrected. "Dumbledore needs me elsewhere." She couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at this, even though she endeavored to keep the disappointment from showing. 

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jude. I know you loved teaching," he said, not fooled in the slightest by her brave face and indifferent tone. "But it seems we all have our parts to play in this." 

She looked at him curiously, debating whether or not to pursue clarification to that statement, but she found that they suddenly stood in front of McGonagall's tidy classroom. Darcy was no longer at her side, she noticed spotting the dog at the other end of the corridor with a huddle of Ravenclaw girls. Turning to Remus and the black dog at his heels, she said abruptly, "Listen, I have something very important to tell both of you. Will you come in and hear me out?" Taking a deep breath, she counseled herself briefly, silently. Feeling would be her downfall here, indifference her savior. 

"Yes, of course," he answered for himself and for Black as she nervously put her hand to the door and pushed it open. "Jude, what's going…" he began but trailed off as he entered the room. The dog at his heels had quickly changed into the still imposing figure of Sirius Black, a little less haggard but retaining the hard edge and intimidating scowl he'd no doubt acquired in Azkaban. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he immediately raged when he saw him. 

Professor Snape did not answer but stared at him coldly, with marked distaste. 

Jude crossed her arms and frowned a bit in indignation and a bit in apology for afflicting him with the presence of his enemy. "I asked him to be here, Black." 

"Jude, I don't understand…" Remus said quietly, turning to her questioningly. 

She heaved a long sigh and shook her head wearily. "You will. Please, both of you sit. I have to tell you something…and I really don't know how to say it." 

Black snorted derisively, still spoiling for a fight. "Yeah? And what's he here for?" he spat, nodding in Snape's direction. "Moral support?" he mocked, leaning against a desk as Remus took a seat beside him, still staring warily at Jude, trying to figure out the puzzle of what was going on. 

"Black, please," Jude begged quietly. 

He shook his head belligerently. "Dumbledore said we had to work together, but I don't have to like it." He stood up sharply and made for the door. "And I won't spend a minute more with that man than I absolutely have to. Either he goes or I do."

Jude scowled, slamming her hands palms down on the table at her side, eliciting a loud crack that stopped him in his tracks. "Both of you stay. Just here me out for once, Black, without dragging it out."

Sirius turned a menacing glare on her, and then on Snape. "Well, if it's so important and also concerns me, I don't suspect I care to have that generally known to _the man who tried to put me back in prison_!" he bellowed, matching her rage. 

"Still as arrogant as ever, aren't you, Black? So sure that everything is about you and no one else…can't you just cease to be a complete ass for two seconds…" Snape said icily before provoking Sirius into another rage. 

He took a step toward Snape malevolently, face contorted in anger. Snape seemed to be enjoying himself, mildly observing the seething man as he leaned casually against the wall of the classroom, unmoved by Black's rabid vehemence. "I'm the ass, am I? You're the one who won't…"

Jude stepped between them and leveled a hard, angry glare at Black. He stopped his barbed insult instantly, staring incredulously, disbelievingly back at her. His anger at Snape slowly switched focus to Jude who seemed to place herself between him and final vindication. He swallowed the harsh words that came as he glared at the scowling girl, heeding his friend's quiet protests. 

Remus stood silently and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, attempting to calm him and stop the escalation of hostility between the enemies. He harbored less than warm feelings for Snape as well, but his curiosity to hear what Jude had to say quelled any desire to pick a fight, as Sirius was content to do now. "Sirius, perhaps we should just hear her out…"

Black nodded once and continued to glare harshly at her. "Then say what you have to say, for Christ's sake!" he snapped, ill tempered. 

Jude narrowed her eyes, incensed by Black's unconcern to learn of why he was asked here. That would change, she mused darkly as she spoke the words she'd feared for a year to impart to these two men. 

Quietly, subduing her own anger, she forced a calm over her, affecting indifference and aloofness. She knew that her lack of feeling imparting such dangerously damning news could prove volatile, but she didn't feel she could tackle it any other way. As they stared expectantly at her, she spoke coldly and calmly. "I am the one responsible for killing him…not Peter, not Voldemort." She looked up into Black's confused face, holding his puzzled stare steadily. "I killed James."

An eternity seemed to pass in deafening silence. His reaction was delayed as the words buzzed in his ears, incomprehensible for a time. But as he realized what she'd said, it suddenly fit. The immense guilt she seemed to carry around him ever since he'd met her. The melancholy the mention of James' name seemed to evoke…or the mention of Harry's name. And she was there, the night that he died. It all made sense now. And only now did she come clean. Not only was she a murderer, but she was a liar in his eyes—she'd made him believe almost a year ago that the man she'd murdered was just another average Joe. His anger, now mixed with an intense betrayal and sadness, blinded him. 

In an instant, he lashed out. She was completely taken by surprise, confused by his loss for words. Certainly she felt she deserved to stand and hear what he had to say to her revelation. But she had always expected the retaliation to be verbal…a disappointment that would sting far worse than anything else he could through at her. Instead, he reacted in the opposite manner. In a second he had both hands clamped firmly around her neck and she was choking and gasping for air. And he said nothing. 

It wasn't long before Remus hauled him roughly back by his shoulders, endeavoring to calm the irate and irrational man. Jude did not hear what he told Sirius, but it did settle him slightly. She knelt on the cold floor of the classroom, coughing and sputtering, Snape next to her glowering murderously at Black. Looking up at Black, she felt all of the misery that was her due. He could only stare back, not trusting himself to speak. Stunned into silence, he shook his head disbelieving before stalking to the door, throwing it open and retreating once again as a large black dog. As the door slammed shut behind him, she struggled to her feet, massaging her neck and chanced an unsure glance in Remus' direction. He bore the same look of utter shock that Black wore. Falling wearily into a chair, he rubbed his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling the complete inadequacy of the statement acutely. 

He looked up slowly, his head reeling with what she'd just said. He was exhausted, distracted already and now this. When he spoke, he was surprised at how harsh and raspy it sounded to his ears. "Why did you tell me this now?" he pleaded to know, stricken and distraught. "Why tonight, Jude?"

She said nothing, wishing the words that came to her mind were enough to express what she felt but knowing that there was nothing she could say that would explain this away. She was about to tell him of Dumbledore's insistence that she do this immediately, regardless of the consequences, but before she could, he got up slowly and headed for the door just as Sirius had. "I have to go," he managed weakly before he too disappeared. 

Jude stared after him, numb and bewildered beyond action. She wanted to stop him, to explain. But she couldn't. Turning slowly, she looked to Snape who also stared at the door. "That went well," he said with the slightest smirk. 

"What did he mean, 'why tonight'?" she asked, feeling hopelessly lost by his words. 

Snape pondered this for one short moment before posing the answer. "Full moon tonight. Not thrilled to have so much on his already distracted mind, I suspect," he said with a hint of satisfied amusement. 

She blinked, feeling numb all over, her shock and anger having long dissipated with Black's retreat. As the force of the professor's words hit her, she felt a new wave of guilt consume her. "Oh, no," she said, sinking into a chair. "I'm such an idiot."

***

Head in her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest, she sat in the unkempt grass under a tree at the edge of the village of Hogsmeade. The pale moonlight bathed everything in a serene, ethereal glow. The town was silent in slumber by now. She waited alone. Waited for daylight, the plaintive and equally vicious cries from the shack on the hill shattering the complacent stillness of the summer night, serving to drive the nails deeper into her own shame and torment. 

For hours she'd frowned into the darkness, alone, unseen. It was a cruel thing she'd done. She knew it. Black probably knew it too, only he didn't know that it was unintentional, the awful suffering she was making her brother endure. Didn't he realize that she would never want to hurt him…that she didn't know? But the truth of it was, if she cared as much as she told herself she did, she should have known. 

Hanging her head, she felt bent and broken under the weight of her agony. Every time she saw someone look at her the way Black did, the way Remus did, she felt a bit of her humanity fall to the ground and shatter into so many pieces, never to be fixed, never to be whole again. She knew soon there would be none left for her to hang on to, to make her feel real, to make her feel alive. Humanity, her ability to give a shit for the world as a whole, even for those she felt obligated to, those she felt a connection for she felt waning. It wouldn't take much more for her to become like Him, unfeeling, uncaring. Mindless, heartless. 

Much more disappointment and she knew she would go under. Her head had always been just above water, but people she relied on were beginning to see her for what she was…inhuman, cruel…a monster just a blink away from betraying them all. But maybe there was still time to prove that she was trustworthy, that even though she'd never failed to fail, she could be relied on. She wanted to be her Master's downfall now more than ever. But before she could leave, she had to be sure he would be okay. So she waited for sunrise. 

Face still buried in her hands, she heard the crunch of earth and grass under approaching footsteps even above the terrifying sounds that punctuated the still serenity of the night. She looked up quickly, startled to see Black, not as the enormous black dog, but as himself, staring moodily back at her. Tensing instinctively, she jumped to her feet, unwilling to be made a fool of again even though she more than agreed that she deserved nothing less. She was ready for him. 

He narrowed his eyes cruelly at her, stopping just a few paces from her tree. "The hell are you doing here," he choked out harshly. "Just making sure you finished the job? First James and now Remus?"

She crossed the distance between them quickly, purposefully. "What? What will convince you that I have not lived a day where I did not feel the guilt of what I've done? What will convince you that I never wanted to hurt Remus? That I didn't tell you what I did just to hurt you?" she bellowed furiously. Gripping her collar, she pulled it away from her neck where a ring of bruises was already visible on her pale skin. "Would it make you feel better to kill me, Black? You wanted to…I could feel it then and I can feel it now. What are you waiting for? Here's your revenge." She stood before him, undefended, her anger back with a force. Gritting her teeth, she stood before him forcing her rage down, taunting him, daring him to take a life. To know finally how it feels to have blood on his hands. And he backed down. 

He stepped away from her, the livid expression on his face losing a bit of its ferocity for the first time that night. Turning away, he hung his head, looking more helpless than he had in the year that she'd spent with him as a fugitive. "What am I supposed to do, Elliot? Just forgive you? Pretend everything is alright?" he said, glancing back at her, a lost and confused expression on his face. 

Slowly, she shook her head no. "Everything is not alright. I know that. It will never be so. But I have already vowed to do everything I can to make it up to Harry. And I will do anything I can to make it up to you. To everyone I've wronged. I don't want to be forgiven. But what I do want is a chance to make it up."

He frowned darkly. "You haven't told Harry then, I gather."

"No," she said faintly. 

Closing his eyes against the milky moonlight, he struggled with thought. Finally, he looked at her sternly, authoritatively. "Don't tell him. At least not yet—I don't want him to have to deal with this on top of everything else." 

She nodded, agreeing and in any case, not wanting to challenge him where the boy was concerned. It was his right to make such a request and the least she could do was respect his wish. "Sirius," she said quietly, "I am very sorry." She wouldn't look at him any longer. His pain was only magnified in her and she couldn't bear it any more. 

He took a deep breath, studying her with waning malevolence. "I remember telling you the night Fudge was going to throw both of our asses in Azkaban that you only obeyed orders. You did what you were told. I didn't hold you responsible then." He dropped his gaze to the prickly grass under his feet, wrestling with warring feelings. "I guess I can't blame you now. It's just…I can't believe it was you."

She let the sentence hang. Immensely grateful for his concession, it still didn't seem like relief. It would be some time before he really stopped blaming her…she couldn't really hope that he would at all. They were just nice words to make it okay between them now. To make the resentment and guilt just a little bit lighter for each of them to carry. But as she listened to the broken silence, she wondered if he would ever forgive her. Remus' silent shock was harder to bear than Sirius' blind rage. And even though Sirius' rage had been dispelled almost as quickly as it had formed, she felt that Remus' anger might be lasting. 

"How many hours 'til daylight?" she asked, sinking to the grass, no longer able to stand. 

Sirius glanced at the sky and speculated for her sake as much as for his own. "Two hours, I'd guess." He sat on the rough grass next to her. "Look, I really shouldn't have suggested that you planned this." He gestured to the sky and the moon winking at them between passing puffs of gray cloud in a diamond-studded indigo sky. "It was a cheap shot to say that you'd knowingly hurt your own brother."

She looked at him, mildly curious. "I didn't think you knew about that." 

Nodding slowly, he confessed, "He told me last night when I came to find him. He immediately asked if you were all right and I wanted to know why the hell he cared. And he told me." He rested his chin on his knees and stared blankly at her, all but a residual anger had dissipated. "I hope you know how lucky you are to have him." 

She didn't answer, but looked away over the town. Two hours seemed a long way off. 

                And after a tense silence, after an eternity of unbroken silence and a heavy, looming dread, Jude noticed finally the rosy fingers of dawn spreading over the horizon. Pushing herself up off the grass, she made her way purposefully but warily up the ragged, grassy hill. The shack had been ominously silent for what seemed a good hour to Jude. Sirius had noticed her get to her feet and head off quickly. He immediately jumped up and followed her. 

                Reaching a door, she wasn't surprised to find it locked. Stepping back, she surveyed the rickety façade of the shack. One window to her right, she noticed, was boarded over with rotting planks, one of which was cracked down the middle and weathered substantially. She strode over to it and, bracing herself with a foot against the planks of the wall, she tugged with all her strength at the broken board. She felt it give and then come off completely in her hand. She threw it aside and ripped at another until three grayed and brittle planks lay behind her and there was a sizeable gap in the window. 

                The glass was grimy but intact she noted with a frown. Looking at her hands, she examined her left. It was still bandaged. Shrugging, she punched a pane out, feeling the aged glass crumble with the force. Ignoring the small cuts that dotted her wounded hand, she hoisted herself through the broken glass, landing lightly on the dusty floor of a dilapidated sitting room. Black dropped into the space behind her, having given up on forcing the door after she'd put her hand through the glass. He nodded to the stairs, heading for them. She fell into step behind him. The air was thick with dust and silence. 

                Black reached the landing and tentatively poked half-closed doors open, passing the rooms by when he found no trace of his friend. One she saw was the bed chamber that was the scene of Black's revelation to Harry of his true identity, and to everyone of Peter's and her own. She didn't give it a second thought and continued down the narrow, darkened hall. Black stopped suddenly, glancing back cautiously, unsure. She knew what to expect. 

                He was there, lying on a rug in the middle of a destroyed room not unlike the others off that hall. The tang of blood peppered the dusty air. Jude elbowed past Black and rushed into the room, kneeling beside the crumpled figure. He was breathing shallowly, she was relieved to see, but he was covered in long, ragged gashes. She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting a wave of dizzying nausea and incredible guilt. She caused this, her revelation had probably driven him mad with rage and anger and without any other victim, he took it out on himself alone. 

                She felt a hot tear trickle down her cheek. A hand on her shoulder forced her to look up. Sirius was shaking his head blankly at her, calling her back to her duty. Quickly, she brushed the rogue tear away and grabbed a pillowcase that had been rent to ribbons. Tearing them into even strips she bound as many wounds as she could before she conjured a stretcher. 

                "Madam Pomfrey?" she asked him, unsure of what to do now. He nodded, lifting the crumpled form easily onto the stretcher. She wasted no time getting to her feet. 

***

                She sat by him in the pristine hospital wing. He hadn't woken up yet, though Madam Pomfrey assured her and Sirius that he would be fine after a rest. She'd refused any care Madam Pomfrey offered her for her own injury, affronting the woman slightly, but she didn't give a damn. And now she waited tensely. Black was sitting one moment, pacing the next, then leaning against the window. The incessant movement was giving her headache incredible force, the pain drumming in her skull in time with her heartbeat. 

                She wanted to hold his hand, to reassure him that she was there, that she hadn't done this to him on purpose, but she was afraid to touch him. She'd already hurt him enough for one day, she reasoned and so maintained her rigid post at his side. Moving little, she hadn't even looked up when Dumbledore stood in front of her, speaking to her, she assumed. She hadn't heard much. Some crap about how things happen, about how it wasn't her fault. The right things to say, but she knew that was all it was. She only waited for him to wake up. She wanted to apologize before she left, before it was too late. 

                Knowing he would be fine only dispelled a little of her anxiety. She wanted him to understand. But the time ticked down and the shadows grew long. It was almost time for her to take off, to risk her neck to find Him. And even though she had the convenient cover of an Animagus form, she still couldn't help but feel her confidence shaken by what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. She felt like a turncoat, a traitor. Black's expression was sealed in her mind. And she couldn't help but wonder if he was right. 

                Reluctantly she stood for the first time since early that morning. Turning to Black, who watched her apprehensively, she spoke plainly. "I have to go…and I probably won't be back for quite a while…" she said with sadness diffuse through her voice. "Would you tell him for me…"  
                She didn't have to finish her request—Black nodded his consent, promising her that he would do so. With nothing left to be said between them, she turned and left them behind without a backward glance.

***

                 It took her the better part of three days to search out any word of the Dark Lord in the small Albanian town that had been the scene of Bertha Jorkins' disappearance. And even this one bit of information was hardly anything to go on. Its source was a grizzled old man, a resident drunk at the local pub. Jude knew where best to look for the trail. This was it, but the trail was apparently cold. 

                The old man spoke garbled Albanian, and between his slurred stuttering, missing teeth and unfamiliar language, she couldn't make out two words. The reason he'd attracted her attention in the first place was that he gestured widely, pointing to his left arm. A curious motion for any casual observer, but it meant a bit more to her. This man had seen or heard or had been a part of something recently to do with Him. She was absolutely sure of it. 

                Perched on the eave of the modest building, she watched the man entertain a friend with the story as they sat on the street, smoking cheap Hungarian cigarettes. She strained harder to make out a word, one single word that would lead her in the right direction. The grizzled drunk continued to ramble wide-eyed to his companion, frequently making the curious gesture that had drawn her attention to begin with. His tone was grave and his companion listened, rapt. 

                And that word came, clear, glorious, and the only thing remotely comprehensible to her ears. She was immensely grateful to the stuttering, sloppy drunk and his companion as he intoned gravely, "Rumania!" 

                With one light leap from the brown tiled roof of the humble pub on the outskirts of the small village near Krume, she took to the air, leaving the green fields at the foot of the Albanian Mountains behind her. With her back to the setting sun, she headed east for the Romanian countryside and any piece of evidence that may put her back on track. The sinking sun casting long shadows over the wide plains and peaked Carpathians, she alighted in a branch of a great scrubby pine at the edge of an expansive wood. In an instant, she was in human form again and dropped lightly to her feet. A satisfied smirk played at her lips as she made her way forward to a great, fortified paddock of some curious sort. A man, busying himself with a large lock of iron barring the massive gate of the structure, and a short, stocky woman with a length of coiled rope slung over her shoulder were the only two people in the clearing besides herself. She knew exactly where she was. 

                The woman shifted the rope to her other shoulder and remarked to the man, "Fireball's a bit of a monster today. Little bugger almost turned me to tinder when I took the tethers off."

                The man laughed a familiar laugh. "He was just tired, is all," he said conciliatorily, patting the securely latched gate with one hand and turning toward her. "Just needs a bit of a rest. Snug as a bug, he'll be a little pussycat tomorrow, you'll see." He took the rope from his companion, turning to make his way back down the path, but halted abruptly as he saw her. The woman froze next to him and looked confused between the man and the mysterious apparition of a barefoot girl standing in the middle of the path that separated them from their camp. 

                "Hullo, Charlie," Jude said unceremoniously. 

Author's Note: A big thanks to all of you who refrained from lynching me for Cedric's death. Honestly, I like the kid too, but he had to go. I hope you're all enjoying the story in its post-Canon phase, even though this chapter was a severe transition and I am not entirely pleased with it. Chapter 42 will follow shortly and I am happy to say that the subsequent chapters meet my approval. I hope they meet yours, dear readers. Thanks again for your support!


	42. Journey Into Darkness

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original characters and material is the property of the author.

Author's Note: At the end of the chapter, folks. Didn't want to spoil it. 

Chapter Forty-Two: Journey into Darkness

_Sallah__: "How?"_

_Indy: "I don't know. I'm making this up as I go."_

_John Rhys-Davies and Harrison Ford, '__Indiana__ Jones and the Raiders of the Lost __Ark__,' __Paramount__, 1981.___

                "Hullo, Charlie," Jude intoned as he stared, wide-eyed and stunned. She didn't really have time for the pleasantries, but she indulged regardless. "Who's your friend?" turning to the woman at Charlie's side, she asked. 

                "Hi, I'm Eleanor," the stocky woman said business-like yet politely. She extended a worn and calloused hand to Jude. Crossing the distance between them, Jude took the woman's hand and was about to complete the required transaction of words when Charlie interrupted. 

                Furrowing his brow and staring at her with all of his mystified confusion, he asked her tersely, "Jude, what are you doing here?" He looked her over yet his confusion and concern was not assuaged. She was a wreck, and from what he heard from Bill, he shouldn't have been surprised. But he was. He shook his head in disbelief, dropping his gaze to the forest floor. Frowning with even more confusion, he added, "And where are your shoes?" 

                With a withering stare, she earned a bit of quiet with which to explain. "Charlie, I'm here because I need your help." A bit of his frustrated confusion melted away at the words, Jude noted. Same old Charlie—always wanting his chance to save the day—he hadn't changed. Turning to his companion, she asked him bluntly, "Can we trust her not to talk?" Eleanor looked affronted only minimally. If Jude had to label the reaction, she would have had to say the woman was intrigued more than insulted. 

                "Yes, of course," Charlie said, prompting her to continue. 

                "I'm searching for Voldemort. This is where the trail has lead so far." 

                Eleanor and Charlie stared back at her, silent and skeptical. "You-Know-Who?" Eleanor voiced weakly. 

                Jude nodded and charged forward with her explanation. "Bill must have told you what happened? Fudge left us high and dry. It's completely up to Dumbledore now to stop this before it becomes a disaster of historical proportions. Voldemort's back and with a vengeance. And Dumbledore needs to know what He's up to, needs to know where He's hiding. That's where I come in." 

                Charlie nodded but still looked skeptical. "But here? Are you sure he is in Romania at all?"

                Frowning, she nodded gravely. "He was here, at least." She took a deep, unsettling breath. Yes, she was sure He'd been here…and close. His presence was still here in the quiet of these woods, all around her. The unmistakable feeling of hatred and the crackling tension of Dark Magic—it was still strong enough to feel for her, like static electricity. "I'm certain of it, but He's gone now." 

                He couldn't help but note the disappointment that laced her usual melancholy tones. Closely watching her, hesitant for reasons he couldn't explain, he paused before forcing himself to answer. Looking at her, he had to remind himself that this was the same Jude he'd seen nearly seven months before, the same Jude that seemed so small, helpless even, a girl that had avoided confrontation almost fanatically in school. But this Jude wasn't the same. She seemed, was it dangerous? No, not dangerous, he thought, studying her carefully. Frightening, yes. She seemed frightening. A strong purpose he could sense around her, undeniable and unwavering will. And coupled with the muted hostility she carried with her always, she seemed a formidable sight to his eyes. How could he have ever thought her helpless, he wondered now. 

                "And how do you think I can help?" he asked, a twinge at the realization that she didn't need the help she requested. Self-sustaining and self-contained, she didn't need any thing from him, or from anyone for that matter. She never had. 

                "You haven't heard of any strange happenings around here, have you?" she asked, a bit of hopefulness helping to lift her ever-weary tone a little. "Anything at all out of the ordinary?" 

                He frowned, shaking his head slowly. "No…oh, wait. There was that thing over in Hungary," he said suddenly turning to Eleanor. "That family. Two weeks ago. House on the River Tisza up in smoke. Authorities couldn't find a cause of death for the bodies found outside. Made the wizarding paper here. I think I still have it back at camp." He raised his eyebrows questioningly in Jude's direction, as if to ask if she would like to see it. 

                "Good," she said blandly. "Anything to go on at this point is invaluable." 

                "C'mon then," Eleanor said, beckoning her to follow. 

Charlie came up beside her and looked at her judiciously. "You know, now that I think of it, it sounds exactly like him. When You-Know-Who attacked, it looked just like the picture in the news article."

Jude felt the nervous tension flood back. She had been impatient for action ever since the night of the Third Task. A vindictive, malicious spirit stirred in her, spurring her on to do something, anything to pay Him back in full for every sorrow He'd visited on someone she cared about. For Cedric, for Harry, for Sirius and for Remus—the old adage was a lie, two wrongs definitely could make a right. And she would make things right. 

"Here," he said, pointing to a map spread before him on a rickety wooden table in a large tent, one of many that dotted the wide glen in the woods. This was Charlie's home, she wasn't surprised to note—no, he certainly hadn't changed one bit, playing with dragons and living in a tent for a living. But he seemed to love his life, as was evident by his ease in the surroundings. The article had been exactly what she'd suspected—apparently some poor Hungarian farmer had crossed paths with Him some time before His rumored return to England. He'd disposed of this family in the same manner He'd employed before…almost fourteen years ago. It felt like the ominous clouds carrying palpable, electric power, foretelling a torrential storm. Peace was at an end. Charlie tapped his finger on the map indicating a spot on the rough paper next to a snaking blue line bearing the name Tisza. "That's not a bad guess for where he was last, don't you think?" 

Jude frowned. The path He'd traveled then had been progressively northwest. Home. But it was clear to Jude He hadn't stayed in England. No, He'd retreated back to the continent somewhere, licking His wounds and regrouping, massing an attack that would leave many more families dead like the Hungarians Jude stared at in the bloodless black and white print of the newspaper. It would not be so bloodless, she thought darkly. 

"Thanks, Eleanor," Jude spoke, turning to the woman standing like a sentry at the door of the tent. "Charlie," she said distractedly, "This is great. I'll check it out, maybe find something."

He nodded solemnly, concerned but not wanting to show it. "Good luck." 

She smiled weakly, slapping him on the shoulder before stalking out of the tent. "Take care," she said as she made her way out past Eleanor, disappearing from his sight. 

Looking up, he quickly moved to follow her. "Be careful!" he called after her, stepping into the moonlight. She was gone. 

Eleanor came out directly, looking to Charlie and then around the clearing hesitantly. She shook her head. "Strange girl. She a friend of yours?" 

He shrugged. "I hope so. I'd hate to be her enemy right now." 

***

                It was what she least expected. _Schwarzwald_. That was the word she heard repeated so often now. Not by drunk men outside of Albanian pubs, but by superstitious old Hungarian women, close neighbors of the murdered family. She'd spent an evening perched on the charming thatched roofs of the modest farms of the Hungarian Plain, listening to word after word of the language. She didn't know it. But she did know German. 

                Two crones sat by a fire, one knitting, one kneading thick, brown dough. They spoke in hushed tones, no doubt about the mysterious and ill-omened murder of the poor farmer, his wife and their three children. One word, she heard, was constantly in volley between them. 

_Schwarzwald_. The Black Forest. 

That was how she ended up standing on the east bank of the Rhein, staring into the dark, tree-shrouded and shadowed expanses. The way the women spoke, it sounded as if they suspected some demon from these woods. They would have to have heard that from somewhere. She guessed it was a reliable source. There was no reason to doubt it. Superstition and rumor often had roots not far from the truth. 

Swallowing her apprehension, she took to the air and headed into the yawning darkness of the forest. It was quite a task, she found to navigate the tangled branches of the close-growing trees. The light, while not having yet faded at the edges, sunset still an hour off, had long since fled the interior of the woods. The distraction the precarious flight provided her was welcome nonetheless. Too many things had occupied her mind as of late. Not among the least was the feeling of Him, ever stronger, ever enveloping. She could feel her will diminish slightly with the lessening proximity. He was here. 

Finally, when she felt she could no longer keep herself airborne for lack of strength, she alighted on a branch for a rest. It hadn't been but twenty minutes or so when muffled voices reached her on the still, undisturbed air. She strained to hear it, but could not make the sound out yet. Two voices definitely, maybe three? She watched the path that snaked through the dark woods beneath her perch in a giant, gnarled pine. No person, beast or spirit had yet presented itself but the sound of the voices drew closer. Not three, she finally discerned, only two. Two voices, two persons, arguing back and forth in German and alternately English. She frowned, concentrating harder. 

"Ich gehe nichts weiter!" a shadowy figure protested, hesitating to go further into the woods than he'd already trekked. "Mein Herr sollen auch nichts gehen!" 

A man emerged on the overgrown path, followed by the hesitant figure of a bent old man, stammering and apparently frightened. "Bloody wards!" the other man, much younger than the bent German, swore vehemently, a strong, cosmopolitan London accent. Jude strained her bird's vision to get a closer look at the man, but he remained shrouded in a long, black overcoat and matching fedora tilted over his face. "Does he honestly think I don't have other things to do than drag my ass through the fucking woods in the middle of sodding Germany!" he bellowed as the old man cowered and ducked back down the path. The young Englishman noticed the old man's retreat and turned sharply to him, addressing him flawlessly in his own language. "Komm hier, du altes dummes Maultier! Wir gehen in den Wald, oder du wanderst allein zurück." The old man cowed at his words, yet the young man noticed his expression brighten a bit at the last statement and so added, "Ohne das Geld!"

Jude watched as the young Englishman continued to terrorize the old, bent man mercilessly, commanding him to lead him further into the woods or he would receive no compensation for his troubles. She wanted to fly down to get a better look at the man in the fedora but thought better of frightening them off by her presence. So she contented herself with watching and waiting. 

                As the strange pair progressed beneath her tree, the young man cursing as his expensive-looking coat snagged on a bramble, the old man looked up to the heavens, heaving a sigh. "Gott, haben Sie an mich die Gnade!" he wrung his hands and implored a God that wasn't listening at the moment and had no inclination either way to have mercy on him in his situation. But as he looked up in despair, he caught sight of her, a large black raven, sinisterly watching his misfortunes. 

                "I have a mind to just leave this godforsaken place and," he added with scathing sarcasm, "The Dark Lord can simply go…" He turned swiftly to the old man who was tugging frantically on his coat sleeve, effectively ruining his heated rant. "Was?" he asked angrily. 

                The old man said nothing but pointed up hesitantly, cringing at him. "Ein Rabe! Das ist eines schlimmes Omen!" A raven. A bad omen. Well, so much for not frightening them away, Jude thought. 

                The young man looked up for the slightest moment, though. Jude praised her luck but felt it slip away in the same instant. His face remained in shadow. She did not make out a single feature. He quickly jerked his attention to the old German. "Es ist nichts, du alte Ziege!" He chastised his skittish companion disdainfully, tearing his arm away from his frantic grasp roughly. 

                "It is a bad omen," a voice intoned from the far side of the path. "Friend, he is right. You should have listened." It was a voice Jude knew well. And it sent cold shivers down her spine. It was her Master. 

                "M…my Lord," the Englishman stammered awkwardly. "I did not realize you were here!"

                "Obviously," He conceded coldly. "Mein Herr," He said with mock civility turning to the old man who stood cowering and shaking behind his arrogant companion. "Sie können jetzt gehen." 

                The old man released a terrified sigh and bowed repeatedly to the imposing and frightening figure before him. "Danke," he sobbed. "Vielen Dank! Vielen Dank!" Repeating his thanks, he turned and fled with all the speed he could muster away from the two sinister men. 

                "M…my Lord," the young man stammered humbly, not a comfortable manner to affect obviously. 

                "Silence," He said just above a whisper. "What news do you have for me?" He asked, His voice captivating as always. Jude believed she could hear nothing besides. "Tell me truthfully and I may forget your…er…imprudent words." 

                "Yes, Lord," he said importantly. "The Gringotts team has made much headway on my discovery. The text of the papyrus has been completely translated. The site has definitely been found. Amenhotep's tomb, number eighteen in the Valley of the Kings, has definitely been identified as the resting place for the Ankh."

                "And the Ankh itself?" He said coolly. "You have found the Ankh of Amun Re?" 

                The man shoved his hands into the pockets of his black coat nervously. "Ah, no, Lord. I have hesitated to find it because I did not wish to lose it to the Ministry or to that meddlesome old professor, Dumbledore."

Voldemort smiled a thin, rapacious smile. "Do not fear the old man. I have someone on the inside and although he failed to complete…a rather vital assignment, I have no doubt of his loyalty. He has not warned me that Dumbledore will act. But that is not your concern. No, you need only worry about the Ankh and bringing it to me…intact…perfect. And so far you have failed to do so."

"I…I believe I know where it lies. A chamber has been discovered, its walls covered in Egyptian wall art. One scene depicts an amulet in the hands of priests…a cross with a loop at the transept. It is the Ankh, I would bet my life on it." 

                Voldemort's thin, pale lips curled into a cruel smile. "Good, for that is exactly what you are doing." 

                The man swallowed hard. "Yes, Lord."

                "I want it delivered…here…to me, by tomorrow evening. It is of the utmost importance, you understand." His eyes flickered maliciously. "Others search for it, I can feel it. The one thing that could instantly return me to my powers…my birthright," He said almost longingly. Then leveling his gaze on the young man, he intoned warningly, "But I am not yet so diminished that I could not dispense of you if need be. No one receives mercy at my hand. A traitor, however, reaps the full weight of my wrath." 

                The young man bowed sharply. "I will not fail you in this, my Lord."

                "No," He hissed coldly. "No, I don't suspect you will."

***

                The cool, crisp desert air was a blessed refreshment Jude relished it, feeling the day's weary pursuits catching up with her. She'd wasted no time leaving the confining, dark interior of the Black Forest, heading as fast as her wings could carry her on the surging mountain updrafts of the Alpine interior, reaching finally the salty tang of the Mediterranean breezes by the time the moon had peeked over the horizon. And now as the Nile streamed silver below her, she breathed in the dry, ancient air of the sun-seasoned land. 

                Heading south, she followed the river with its binds of green on either side receding into sandy dunes beyond. She flew with utmost speed, gliding as silent as a wraith over the slinking waters, heading for the enchanted, enigmatical Valley of the Kings. The Great Pyramids, standing in contrast to the nebulous lights of energetic life that buzzed in Cairo, had already fallen behind her, opposing each other from their respective banks of the dominating waterway. Her destination lay straight ahead, and she knew the task ahead of her. She had to reach it first. Mister Black Coat and Fedora could possibly be there already, she reasoned. He'd surely Apparated, and she'd not dared to chance it—that was the chance Voldemort could twist to His advantage. As a raven, she could not Apparate…no, she was essentially no more than just that, a bird. But as herself, He would be able to sense her, to feel her presence, especially when His attention was focused so obsessively on this very spot at the moment. No doubt He could feel his black-clad and arrogant servant working against her possibly at this moment. 

                Jude took a breath, attempting to dispel her anxiety of having been late…second place. He'd told her Master that he didn't exactly know where this Ankh thing was. There was her chance—a reason to hold out hope that it wasn't too late to divert the catastrophe that loomed heavily in front of her like a terrible specter. She still had time, she thought as she wheeled in the sky, dropping into a steep dive. She wanted to close her eyes until her feet were safe on the ground but the bird nature she'd acquired wanted nothing more than to do such stunts forever. A small cluster stretched before her, crumbling marble and limestone monuments encroached upon by more modern structures of warm-colored earthen clay, narrow streets and roofs raised to incongruous levels, a veritable rabbit's warren in the Middle Eastern fashion of town planning. It was the modern city of Thebes, hugging the east bank of the Nile closely, surrounding the ancient temples of the great religious centers of Karnak and, more spectacular, Luxor. Great sailing ships and smaller, lateen-sailed ships bobbed up and down drowsily in the river's current, sleepy in their harbor, rocking dully against their moorings. Further away from the bank and the peaceful boats, the current was swift and active. 

                She swooped down silently, coming to rest beneath the spreading fronds of an enormous date palm that bent in adoration of the softly lapping river that swept passed its roots. Taking only the smallest second to rest from her kamikaze flight across the whole of Europe, she dropped noiselessly to the soft and squishy, silt-covered bank and looked out across the wide river. It was running fast and wide between her and the twinkling lights of Thebes. Jude frowned, studying the water, remembering that this river had annual floods, but looking at the river, she couldn't tell if this was the proverbial inundation that made the area around it a green oasis in the desert. Shrugging, she turned her back to it and headed swiftly to the line between sand and sumptuous vegetation—even from the bank, she could see the demarcation about a hundred meters off between the snaking irrigation trenches dividing a flax field in neat squares. She pushed her way through the thick stalks, heading for the desert beyond. 

                The moon tricked a milky light from her perch, peeking in and out of clouds. It was enough light that she had little trouble navigating the field of shoulder-high plants. She'd reached the sandy expanse in almost no time at all—which was essential, she reminded herself. She didn't have much of that. Standing with her back to the green of the Nile, she faced the dunes and rock, raking the barren landscape with her eyes. To the northeast she could discern a rise in the geography, long flat cliffs that dropped off steeply. The Valley of the Kings lay about a kilometer off. And a small city of white tents, little spots of Adelweiß blooming in the desert, marked an excavation team no doubt. She took quick, wide strides through the thick sand, heading for the tiny town of white tents. That was her destination, she was certain not by the look of it, for it resembled an average camp, nothing to distinguish it from perhaps a French archaeological expedition or an American survey group. It was the Gringotts team—she could feel the overwhelming current of magical energy radiating from the wards set up to keep the modest metropolis of ivory tents from Muggle notice. 

                She slowed her steps as she approached the edge of the camp, even though it seemed impossible to slow her heavy breathing. The pace matched more of a run than trek through the desert. Looking around, she saw no sign that the man in the black overcoat and hat had been there. A wind had picked up since she'd come from the valley, brushing the desert clean of human trace. Indeed, looking back, her footsteps were slowly being swallowed by the shifting sand. Urging herself forward, she gathered her caution and pricked her senses to alert her of danger that seemed to have mysteriously dissipated. There was no reason to think she'd gotten there first. 

                Keeping to the shadows, she quickly discerned which of the tents housed the inhabitants at this time of night. A few darkened tents produced soft snores reverberating from their interiors, others boasted raucous laughter and flickering bright lights cast jovial shadows against the white silk. Her eyes took in every aspect of the camp, sweeping from tent to tent. She had no plan, no idea even what she was looking for. She didn't know what an Ankh was and she didn't know where Amenhotep-the-whatever was buried. She would have to make this up as she went. 

                Something caught her eye at that moment. Next to the tent that seemed to serve as the camp's impromptu pub was a darkened tent, tethered shut against the wind, no sign of habitation. The sand before the flaps that served as the entryway was trampled fairly consistently and was no longer fine and grainy, sugary, but pressed flat by the constant passage of feet. It was as good a place as any to start, she supposed. Carefully pushing back the flaps, her eyes went wide. Jackpot. 

                It was a sort of HQ for the business of the day, whatever these people did out here in the desert under the auspices of Gringotts. Books, worn and dog-eared, lay scattered over rough wood tables, maps pinned to the fine silk of the tent. Eyes taking in the items hungrily, she looked all around her. Perched on a stack of open books and staring at her curiously was a brown barn owl. Remembering her duty, she quickly jotted down a quick note with a borrowed quill and paper, tethering it to the placid bird. Bored and eager to take flight again the bird headed out of the tent with one great wing beat. Her note had been concise to say the least: she'd told Dumbledore that Voldemort was shrouded in the Black Forest of Germany and seemed to know nothing of His servant's present state. He was free to use Crouch as a cover for now. She mentioned nothing of her whereabouts, only that she'd gotten an invaluable lead, one that could not be neglected. 

When the owl had taken to the sky, she turned her attention to the volumes and papers in front of her; she needed information and here she found it. Flipping through the books on the desk in front of her, she saw page after page of incomprehensible pictographs. She tossed it aside for the book underneath it, which soon joined its enigmatical friend on the pile of "not helpful in the least." Pressing her lips together in a grim frown, she looked up to the maps. One was marked "Temple of Luxor" and zig-zagged with lines of the plan of a magnificent building with great colonnades, and small, neat writing containing excavation details. Next to that was tacked up a map that bore only a two-letter title in an untidy hand. KV. 

                Jude peered at it mysteriously for a few moments she snatched it down from the silk wall with greedy hands. KV. Valley of the Kings. Small boxes lining what looked like an expansive ravine were labeled KV and then a successive number. What caught her attention was the very same untidy, possibly masculine writing that snaked along the margin beneath KV 18. It proclaimed triumphantly this unassuming rectangle on worn parchment to be Amenhotep III's resting place. And under that name was written four words and underlined twice. Ankh of Amun Re. 

                She creased the paper, folding it haphazardly and shoved it into the pocket of her worn jeans, turning her attention immediately to the table beneath the maps. Various papers and books littered the surface along with one curious oddity. A series of badly worn pages of some venerated manuscript lay under protective glass, encased in thin, transparent boxes just big enough to house one sheet of the curious parchment visibly. These undoubtedly were the papyri that the man in black had mentioned to her Master. Notes scattered several sheets of forgotten paper, that same maddening, careless and sloppy writing. Reference books lay open on the sheets, forgotten by the researcher for the moment. Jude collected the papers and shuffled through them. Symbols lined the page in rows from top to bottom with matching English translations, alternately crossed out and corrected, snaked through the space between them. Shaking her head, she couldn't make out even the English. It was a hurried job apparently, done in haste and excitement. She folded these and was about to shove them into her pocket with the map she'd nicked but paused. Unceremoniously abandoned in the chair shoved casually under the table lay a diary, or journal of some sort. Jude picked it up and thumbed through it. A rubber band bound a large section of the pages to the front of the worn leather cover, keeping a place for the author. Jude turned to this page and smiled. The same figures were drawn in, the same wretched handwriting but this time an effort had been made to portray the pictographs neatly, and the English underneath was perfectly legible and astoundingly understandable. This was the information that she'd desperately needed. She tossed the illegible notes back onto the desk and pocketed the diary instead along with an electric torch, not exactly something she expected to find here but was grateful nonetheless. Ducking out of the tent cautiously, she looked around the camp. No one was outside save her. Before that changed, she slipped off into the desert once again, leaving the tent village behind her. 

***

                The moonlight spilled over the honey-colored stone of the great colonnaded façade. Rocks and sand from an ancient landslide spilled around the yawning entrance, a few of the columns showing damage from the strain of all the debris. Piles of the same sediment rose from the ravine's base apparently where crews had removed it from the interior, making a passage into the labyrinthine cavern, KV 18, claimed the map she held clutched in her hands. The tomb of Amenhotep III. 

                "Well, here goes nothing," she sighed, replacing the map and clicking the torch on, allowing the narrow beam to shine before her into the dark expanses. The moon winked happily in the sky as she stepped into the thick blackness that seemed to reach out to her, wrapping her, suffocating her like a giant lethifold. The sense of being surrounded on all sides by earth and solid rock was an unsettling feeling, especially when that earth and solid rock was etched out of the ground to form a grave. Keeping the beam of light steady on the ground in front of her, she took a few tentative steps into the dark. Soon she could no longer see the ever-waning rectangle of light from the entrance. She was enveloped completely, with only the torch in her hand, a journal she hoped held the answers to any questions that may arise, and a sketchy knowledge of anything to do with ancient Egypt. All in all, she couldn't fathom how she kept her hands steady, why she was not shaken to her core by nerves. 

                By the time she'd reached the end of the passage, she'd gotten used to the dark, her interest in her surroundings heightening enough to triumph over any fears. She marveled at the expansive ceiling that stretched overhead as she stood in an enormous chamber, filled floor to ceiling with wondrous wall paintings. The narrow beam of the flashlight only allowed her to take in the scenes one at a time. A heard of cows being counted in a census, farmers harvesting flax, dates, and wheat, a man and a cat hunting waterfowl on the blue Nile—they were all beautiful to look at, just as she imagined a place like this to look. But what she didn't expect was how empty this place felt, how bare it was. Shouldn't there be piles of treasure, heaps rising from the floor to half the height of the huge columns? 

                Shrugging, she assumed that the excavations had indeed reached this chamber already. The team worked for Gringotts, for Christ's sake—they'd probably taken everything that wasn't nailed to the floor—and even then that might still have been up for grabs. Treasure hunters. She shook her head ruefully, turning to her right and then to her left. A passage snaked off in both directions. Both looked equally forlorn and forgotten, dark and creepy. After a minute of frantic looking back and forth, she dropped to her knees and set the torch on the dusty stone floor, reaching in her back pocket for the worn journal. She turned to the marked page and read. 

                Blah, blah, Ankh, everlasting life, undefeatable powers, nothing helpful to her at the moment. She hastily turned the page. An anathema, an appalling heresy, an affront to the Sun God, the priests of his cult plotted to murder the king who'd commissioned them to create such a means of gaining the god's power. And now the completed Ankh has lain hidden in his tomb, the unwitting pharaoh cursed for all time, blah, blah. 

                She flipped several more pages impatiently. More history. Nothing practical, no directions. She slammed the book closed with an audible snap and tapped it on her chin, thinking desperately. Of course the translated papyrus would not give explicit directions to the amulet. This was a puzzle that required using one's head.

"Amun Re…the Sun God," she whispered into the dark. "The sun…sun," she continued, walking herself mentally down a path of strategic reason, hoping against hope that it lead somewhere. "The sun rises in the east, sets in the west. I came in facing north…so," she reasoned, looking off to the right and the left once more. "East or west. Rising or setting?" 

Pushing herself up off the ground, she snatched up the torch, pocketing the diary once again. She brushed her hands off on her jeans and frowned. Rising, that sounded like life to her. Setting, death, the end. But which would they pick? Life, death? 

Without knowing why, Jude headed off into death. The setting sun, she thought. Who knew, maybe these priests had a sense of humor. She hoped that it was more than simply her natural inclination to the left. Her still-throbbing hand no longer forgotten, she shined the torch on it as she continued into the unknown of the west corridor. The burn, now coupled with the cuts from putting her fist recklessly through a window, had long since soiled the bandage with blood. Wrapping the old and dingy gauze tighter, she dropped her hand to think on it no more. Holding the torch steadily in front of her, she watched carefully as scene after scene of faded paintings depicting Egyptian court and popular life. Every now and then, she would pause to give these pictures a closer examination, a pictograph in the rows of hieroglyphs that lined the paintings having caught her eye. Retrieving the journal once again, she studied it before turning back to the wall scene. In the journal, the picture of a sitting man with a bird's head, a circle balanced on top of it, holding what looked to Jude like an ankh, all depicted next to a circle with a dot in the center, seemed to represent the name of the god, Amun Re. This symbol, she noticed, repeated over and over in the string of otherwise unfamiliar picture-letters. She'd been crap at Runes during her schooldays. Especially hieroglyphs. 

She took this to be a good sign, though, without knowing the exact meaning of the elusive words. Flipping once more through the journal, lavishing more patience on the pages than before, she rolled the rubber band off the bound section, winding it around her wrist. To her surprise, she saw what looked like a pencil-sketched map—or partial map—of this very tomb. She kicked herself for having been so damned impatient before she'd walked a half of a kilometer or more in a possibly wrong direction. But as she studied the map, her self-depreciation turned swiftly into congratulations. The east corridor, the one snaking off to the right of the main chamber, seemed to be fully mapped, showing absolutely no evidence of what was sought, just more corridors with penciled in notes of treasures recovered from the various areas. Her corridor, the left, was virtually a mystery, to her as well as to the author of this journal. Her eyes raking the page, she smiled broadly at the only note marking the half-finished map of this side of the tomb. Just a bit further from where she stood, she assumed, the map proclaimed the place where the papyrus from the translation was found. This was good news, she tried to convince herself, but her body stiffened with the tense realization—this was definitely the unknown. 

Apparently, the author and his or her companions had not explored further than where the papyrus had been discovered, she supposed because they wanted to have the aid of its information and therefore had to delay the expedition into this part of the tomb until it was translated. She didn't blame them. She'd seen enough movies to know that these kinds of places always had hidden…obstacles…booby traps. It sounded silly, she knew, but she prepared herself for anything nonetheless. Sucking in a deep breath of the stale, stagnant, ancient air, she plunged on into the ambiguous darkness. 

Taking one tentative step after another, she cautiously walked on, the beam of the torch focused on the ground below her. Every now and then she allowed herself the luxury to look up at the decorated walls momentarily. It just so happened that she was looking up as her beam raked the floor, exposing what she'd focused her concentration on avoiding. A trap—a pit was more like it—she glanced down just in time to stop herself from stepping blindly over the edge. The pebbles and dust rolled over the precipice as she skidded to a precarious halt on the lip of the chasm. Breathing heavily with the momentary fright, she calmed herself and stretched the thin beam out across the expanse. 

The pit, she saw, was a good meter and a half across. And deep, so deep that there was no discernable bottom—hell, for all she was concerned, if she couldn't see it, it didn't exist! But the worst of it lay ahead. This pit wasn't alone. It had friends. One pit, then another, separated by half a meter at the most of renewed floor. Beyond that and the dusty ground ended again, dropping sharply into another bottomless expanse, a meter and a half as well. Another pit lay beyond that. Jude bit her lip, frowning. With a running start, she gauged that she could jump the distance. But she doubted if she made it past the first pit, she could duplicate the feat again. There simply was not enough space to get the needed start. She'd never make it over the second pit, not to mention the third. 

Furrowing her brow, she thought of other possible solutions to her predicament. As a raven, surely she could fly over, but she would have to do so without light. No torch, no magic. It was impossible. She didn't even know if magic was an option in here. Surely there were wards in place, controlled by the Gringotts team, not to mention what other ancient protections the denizens of the tomb would have placed upon it. Too risky. She filed it as a possibility only in the extreme case of an emergency—only then would she allow herself magic. 

Her eyes wandered up the walls on either side of the pits, noting the regularity, the continuation of the scenes as if nothing had changed, as if there did not exist three holes in the ground waiting to swallow the unlucky explorer that happened not to notice them. The walls were smooth, even—no handholds of any kind, there would be no way she'd be able to climb them. She'd rather take her chances with jumping anyway, not fancying herself a stellar rock-climber. 

She let her eyes travel up the wall to the ceiling, where to her astonishment and fleeting joy she saw horizontal beams exposed along the corridor, evenly spaced over the pits. Her excitement escaped her just as easily as it had come—she had not brought any ropes. She swore softly. It seemed her only option was to run, pray and jump for it. Or she could conjure ropes and take whatever consequences came with it. 

Staring up at the beams she took a few steps backward, away from the pit, shoving the torch securely deep in her pocket. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she said, shaking her head and crossing herself, an odd habit to retain from her early upbringing, she mused absently. Closing her eyes, she planted her feet on the floor. Pushing off savagely, her feet catching the stone and sand, she tore off at a suicidal pace, heading straight for the pit. She leapt into the air, struggling for enough height to clear the dark expanse below her. With the brief and fleeting thought that there was no way in hell she'd make it, she felt the jarring impact of stone on her feet and then her knees. Her eyes flew open and she caught herself with her hands pressed flat against the narrow continuation of the path, falling on her stomach to stop her forward motion. Another second's hesitation and she would have gone over the opposite edge. Legs dangling, she released an immensely relieved sigh, her heart racing, pounding against her chest. Pulling her legs underneath her, she stood and forced herself to look at the next pit and the perch beyond that. It somehow seemed wider than the last. 

 "You can't make this, Jude," she advised herself logically. Pacing the half-meter of earth, she eyed the far end of the pit covetously, antagonistically. It was a foe. She didn't cower to foes. "But," she urged herself pragmatically, "getting killed won't get you what you want."

She looked up again at the beam, a good meter or so above her head and at least a foot out over the pit. There was equally no way she could reach that. Not without magic. No ropes, no chance of reaching the beam, and no prayer of getting across this pit. She was screwed without magic. Biting her lip frantically, she clenched and unclenched her fists, trying desperately to talk herself out of it. No other alternative, she did the only thing she could think of—she threw herself into the air and reached out wildly for the rock that seemed implausibly far away. 

Her fingers brushed the sandy stone and immediately she clamped down on it, hard. Gritting her teeth, she felt her body impact the side of the black pit—hard, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Wincing against the pain in her hand, the burn and companion cuts stinging fiercely, she tried to pull herself up to the surface. The strength in her arms, however, seemed to have reached its limit. She could feel her fingers slipping as she tried frantically to get a better hold on the rough rock. One by one, the fingers on her injured hand slipped from their hold in sickening slow motion. Scrabbling with her feet, she scratched at the rocky surface in an attempt to gain a foothold, but the rock broke away underneath them. The other hand was burning with the effort to hold her up and she didn't know how much longer until she found out just how deep these pits actually were. 

With the last vestiges of strength, she pulled herself up enough to grip the edge of the little cliff again with her left hand. Struggling with all of her might, she pulled herself up enough to fling one elbow then the other over the ledge. Panting with the effort, she thought she could be content just to stay like this but knew that was impossible. With another burst of fleeting energy, she grunted and tugged herself up over the lip of the rock, managing to get her shoulders over. But that was all she managed before she slipped back down. She looked up at her hands, strained and shaking threatening to release her. And in one small second they did. 

She felt herself falling fast, the stale air whistling in her ears. Panicked, the world contracted to that one moment, that one small space of time, the ever-diminishing rectangle of the pit's mouth. She yelled the first thing she could think of, only slightly reassured to see thin cords shoot up from her hand. Grasping the end of the ropes, she glanced frantically upward, praying that the other end of the rope had tethered to the beam—an impossible distance above her now. Clutching the rope, she still continued to fall. And then an almighty jerk! She felt her hands slack and she slipped down the rope even further for one terrifying second. Gripping harder, the rough rope burning the abused flesh of her hands mercilessly, she stopped herself, relaxing a bit, feeling the draining weariness in every bone, in every single fiber. But the rope held. 

Groaning, she forced herself to climb. Up, up farther, just a bit farther. Past the surface of the ground, she clung to the rope and forced herself just a little higher. Shifting her weight, she swung the rope slightly, swaying only a fraction. But the motion grew wider, the beam creaking. When she'd swung out enough, she released her hold on the rope, dropping lightly on the ground between the second and the third dark expanse. Catching the cord, she wound it around her hand and yanked it loose from the beam. 

Shrugging, she threw it over the last beam, where it held fast. "Oh, well," she sighed quietly, "what's done is done." She wrapped the rope around her wrist and swung easily to the other side. Dropping lightly and cat-like on the opposite side of the pit, she mused wryly. Anyone in a five mile radius would know someone was poking around here, for not only had her fall frightened her enough that she was sure she'd made quite a ruckus, but she'd used strong enough magic to alert any wards if they hadn't already been triggered before that. Gathering the rope around her hand and elbow, she slung it over her shoulder and soldiered on wearily but with a lighter heart. She thought for sure she'd never get passed that. Fighting the urge to turn back to the pits and shout, "ha!" she restrained herself and fetched her torch from her pocket, training the narrow beam ahead of her. 

It wasn't long before she heard it. Halting, the hair raising slightly on the back of her neck, she strained against the deafening silence to catch the sound again. The silence echoed back nothing save its own sound. Smirking in the dark, she chastised herself. She was expecting to hear footsteps, she reassured herself, using magic and the simple fact of knowing that someone else was trying to find the very object she sought forced such a nervous thought on her. There were no footsteps she argued, moving onward. 

Again. She heard it again, and this time it was not a trick, not a mistake. Footsteps, fleet and purposeful following her. Heart pounding in her ears, she felt a brief wave of panic. Without a second thought, she heard the sound of a heavy step, a fall maybe. The pursuer had easily passed the pits, she guessed by the sound, issuing from around a bend she'd already passed. She dared not go back to investigate. It could only be one person anyway. The man in the black coat and fedora. Voldemort's servant. 

She picked up her pace to a slow jog. The corridor seemed to stretch away endlessly on either side. Returning the torch beam to the ground, she stopped dead in her tracks. The path here narrowed to a mere half meter across, no more. Yet the corridor had not decreased its width. A margin wide enough for a man to fall through ran along both walls, the narrowed path bordered every few paces by grand columns. She sighed in frustration, but she was grateful nonetheless. At least it wasn't a run and jump deal. Just balance. She could balance, but she doubted she had another leap left in her—hell, she wasn't even sure she had even a hop left. 

Making a quick decision, she hastily moved down the path until she'd reached the halfway point, she guessed. Ducking behind a column, she waited. It appeared as if this would be her best opportunity to lose the guy. In her condition, she would be no match for him on foot. She had to stand and fight. Raking the floor once more with the torch, she mentally noted the width of the path once more—two paces at best—and placed her right foot against the edge of the path where she stood, a reference point. Pressing her back up to the column, she switched off the torch and was plunged into blackness. 

For a moment, she heard nothing but her own deafening breathing. Surely he could hear her, she thought, trying to slow her breaths to a quiet, calm pace. She gripped the darkened torch in her hand, waiting. In the next instant, she heard him. Hasty footfalls on the stone, heading for her. She planted her feet and tensed her body, ready to pounce. The light of a torch raked the precarious path just behind her. Five seconds maybe, she guessed blandly, calculatingly. Two. Now. 

She placed her weight on her left foot, mentally noting that she now had one pace on each side of her, no more. And she swung hard in the same instant with the torch, feeling it connect with something solid. She heard a man grunt and stagger backwards, taken by surprise. She swung again, aiming at anything in front of her, the man's torch effectively blinding her. But her blow met little more resistance than air. She felt a hand seize her weapon in one strong grip, attempting to wrench it from her grasp, but she held fast. The man drug her sideways, still trying to wrest the weapon from her hands, the beam of light from his own jerking wildly around, illuminating nothing and everything all at once. Jude could not see her opponent at all. 

Feeling her shoulders connect crushingly with a column, she grimaced. He held the metal torch she'd struck him with in both hands now, his torch lay forgotten on the ground, still lit but shining on the opposite wall, illuminating minimally. She still had her hands clasped fiercely over the weapon, trying to pry it away from her like a weightlifter benching an impossible load. He was stronger, she noted with rage as he pressed the cold metal harder and harder into her throat. Panicking, she let go of the torch, feeling the pressure increase maddeningly, her head swimming for want of oxygen. 

"Who are you?" she thought he heard him ask, but the world was spinning wildly. Instead she answered by shoving the heel of her hand at the man's face, thrusting upward. She felt a satisfying crack and the release of the man's hold on her. He backed away. Pushing off of the column, she kicked him hard, squarely in the chest. He hit the opposite column with a loud crack and a miserable groan. Quickly bending to retrieve her dropped weapon, she rose to swing at him again. But the man had anticipated her move and before she came up again to land her devastating blow, he struck her full across the cheek with a cold, hard, metallic object. The force spun her dizzily around and she stumbled over the edge of the precarious path. She let the torch fall from her hands as she clutched frantically at the ledge, tasting the tang of blood on her lips. Gritting her teeth, she tried to pull herself up but it was all she could do to just hang on. 

Grimacing, she looked up and found herself staring into the barrel of a pistol. The man, having retrieved his torch, stood over her as she clung haphazardly to the edge of the path. She could not see him for the light was full in her face. Her fingers she felt slip and she fought for a better grip, darkly wondering what the point was. She was done for anyway. One more second and she'd fall. 

Dizzy from the blow and just utterly exhausted, she couldn't be sure what she'd heard the man say. It sounded curiously like her name. The voice. It was familiar somehow. Digging through the foggy clutter that clogged her mind, she grasped for the name that went along with that voice. He spoke again. 

"Jude?"

She furrowed her brow, her arms burning with the effort of holding her up. "Bill?" she asked, surprised that that was the name her fuzzy mind had fished out of the muddled information buzzing incomprehensibly around in it. "Could you give me a hand?" she managed to choke out as one hand slipped from the edge. 

Author's Note: The German in this chapter translates as follows:

 "Ich gehe nichts weiter!"—I go no further. 

"Mein Herr sollen auch nichts gehen!"—You should not go either, sir.

"Komm hier, du altes dummes Maultier! Wir gehen in den Wald, oder du wanderst allein zurück."—Come here, you old, stupid mule. We go into the woods, or you walk back alone. "Ohne das Geld!"—Without the money.

"Gott, haben Sie an mich die Gnade!"—God, have mercy on me!

"Was?"—What?

"Ein Rabe! Das ist eines schlimmes Omen!"—A raven. That is a bad omen!

"Es ist nichts, du alte Ziege!"—It is not, you old goat!

"Mein Herr," "Sie können jetzt gehen." –Sir, you may go now.

For literary purposes, I have completely fudged Egyptian history. Amenhotep III was a real pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty—therefore, he is not my property, but belongs to history. His bid for power, however is completely fictional and even though he is buried somewhere in the Valley of the Kings, whether or not his final resting place is KV18 is a mystery—therefore also completely bogus. My sources that have aided me in my research for these chapters (42-46) will be listed in a bibliography (and chapters for which they were used will be cited) at the end of the story. If you are truly interested in knowing the sources right away, email me and I would be happy to provide you with a detailed list. Hope you are all enjoying my bogus Egyptian history and my attempt at action/adventure writing! Can you tell my favorite movie is 'Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark"? 


	43. The Ankh Of Amun Re

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies: Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original characters and material is the property of the author. 

Author's Note: I was debating whether or not to up the rating on this and the next few chapters, seeing as the content will become a bit gruesome at times. But then I reconsidered—we're all grown-ups and can handle a little gore I think—PG 13 still stands. Further Author's Notations at the bottom.

Chapter Forty-Three: The Ankh of Amun Re

_Belloq: "Indiana, we are simply passing through history. (With a sweeping gesture at the Ark) This, this is history."_

_Rene Belloq (Paul Freeman), Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, Paramount, 1981. _

                "Could you give me a hand?" Jude managed to choke out as she gripped the ledge with one feeble hand. 

                Bill dropped the torch instantly and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, pulling her over the steep edge of the path. She was almost a dead weight and he strained to hold her up without much effort on her part. She clutched at his shirt collar, scratching his neck in an attempt to hoist herself up. One more tug and she flopped over onto her back, panting and exhausted, her feet still dangling over the side. Bill sank to the ground next to her, breathing heavily, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, pistol still clutched in a tense grip. 

                "Should I even ask?" he said sardonically, staring in amazement at her as she lay still on her back, too tired to move or even to look at him. He pulled one knee up and slung his arm over it, the pistol dangling lazily in his hand. 

                Finally opening her eyes, gulping huge breaths of air, she glared at the gun. "Are you going to kill me, or what?" she said scathingly. "Put the gun away before you hurt someone." 

                He held the weapon up, staring at it fondly. "I may need it. Who knows? You could try to take my head off again with that torch." Still, he obliged her and stuck the pistol in the waistband of his faded blue jeans, before glancing back at her thoughtfully. "What are you doing here, Jude?" 

                She sighed and shook her head, remaining on the rocky and dusty ground. "The short or long version?" 

                "Whichever explains why you're in the middle of the bloody desert, hiding in a tomb and breaking my nose," he answered agitatedly. 

                Raising her head to look at him, she asked, "Is it really broken?" 

                "Yeah," he said blandly, fingering his swollen nose. "It's been a while since I let a girl clean my clock, you know. You got me pretty good." 

                "_Let_ me? Bollocks, you _let _me!" she spat incredulously. "You didn't let me kick your arse. I did it fair and square." She winced as she sat up, every bone in her body protesting movement. With the sleeve of her shirt, she wiped the blood from her lips. She admitted to herself grudgingly that he'd gotten her pretty good as well. 

                "Hey," he retorted, rubbing his chest where she'd managed to land one blow of her torch and a well-aimed kick, "at least I'm not the one that ended up over the ledge." 

                Massaging her cheek, she knew there would be a nasty bruise. "Congratulations," she said snidely. "Who did you think I was, anyway? For a while there, I really thought you were out for blood." 

                "I was," he admitted sheepishly. "God, Jude. I could have killed you! Don't you know how dangerous this is?" 

                She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes, actually. I know exactly how dangerous this is, Bill. But I didn't expect to end up with a bloody gun in my face. What the hell is that thing for anyway?" she pointed to the pistol peeking out from beneath his black t-shirt. 

                "Can't use magic in here—too dangerous until all of the curses are broken. So the team carries pistols…just in case."

                She nodded. "What…what could happen if someone did use magic?" she asked tentatively, casually. 

                "Oh, lots of things," he said cryptically. 

                "Like?"

                "Like waking things," he said unceremoniously. 

                "_Waking _things?" she choked out, staring wide-eyed at him. 

                "Yeah," he said staring curiously at her. "But that's just worst-case-scenario. Usually, it just sets off the wards we have up." 

                "Oh," she said, relieved. She felt the deep, uneasy feeling his words had beckoned dissipate. 

                "So, are you going to answer my question?" he asked equably, getting to his feet and then helping her to stand. "What are you doing here? Short version." 

                Taking a deep breath, she began her abbreviated explanation. "He's after something. Voldemort is after something that is hidden here. The Ankh…or something. You know it?" 

                He nodded slowly. "Shit," he swore softly. "I knew something like this was going to happen. How did you find out?" 

                "I was…spying. For Dumbledore. This man came to meet with Voldemort and told Him that he knew where the Ankh of Amun Re was and Voldemort ordered him to bring it back before the next nightfall." Fishing out the journal, she added, "According to this, it sounds like a nasty little bit of work, this Ankh."

                "My field journal!" Bill exclaimed, snatching the worn, dog-eared book from her hands. "Where did you get this from?" 

                She shrugged, sheepish. "Nicked it from one of the tents." Incredulously, she turned from him and started up the path, heading further into the unknown. "You weren't using it anyway." 

                Examining his journal, he looked up accusingly at her. "You lost my place." 

                "Oh," she said absently, holding her hand out to him, offering her wrist, the rubber band still wound around it. "Here." 

                Frowning, he took the rubber band from her wrist and replaced it on his journal. "What happened to your hand?" he asked curiously. 

                "Nothing," she sighed grudgingly. "It's an old injury." She turned and continued down the path. 

                "Hey! Just where do you think you're going?" he yelled after her. 

                "I'm going to find that bloody thing before whoever-he-is finds it," she said with irrefutable determination. 

                He jogged up behind her and grabbed her roughly by the elbow. "Like hell you are! Jude, I haven't even been back there yet. Who knows what kind of curses or traps are in there?"   
                Snatching her arm away from him, she marched on stubbornly, her torch steadily lighting the way. "I have no other choice, Bill. Do you know what will happen if He gets that Ankh?"

                Pocketing his journal, he matched her pace. "Of course I do." 

                She wheeled around and jabbed a finger at his chest viciously. "You obviously don't. I have to get there first…or it's over. He wins. We lose, Bill." She noted absently, through her anger, that he really, honestly had no clue how big this was. He was the very picture of devil-may-care unconcern. Danger to him came in the form of a tangible threat—horror film type stuff, Jude reckoned. A horrible curse he could heroically break, a ghastly mummy to battle, things of that sort she believed he lived to defeat. Standing there in faded jeans and a Weird Sisters band t-shirt that proclaimed "Something wicked this way comes," a gun in his belt and ropes carelessly thrown over his shoulder, he looked like just a punk kid having a bit of sport playing the good guy in his own action-adventure story. She shook her head knowing that this was much more than that. "I'm going in there, Bill. You don't have to follow me."

                He huffed angrily, glaring at her. "The wards only showed one person in here. For all you know, the guy might have said to hell with it and took off."  
                Jude, hands on her hips, gritted her teeth in frustration. "It doesn't work like that. People don't just cop out on Him. They do what they're told…or they die. Most people don't want to die, Bill. This guy, whoever he is, will try everything to get what he was told to get. No exceptions."

                Shaking his head, he switched on his torch to Jude's surprise and strode over to her side. "Well, the pits back there were good signs. Whoever designed this didn't want anyone to come down this path."

                Jude smiled slightly as Bill headed off into the darkness. She fell into step beside him. "Do you have any idea who would have given Voldemort the information about all this?" 

                Bill frowned. "No," he said, perturbed. "There are a few from my team who are on holiday. Donna, Trent and Gary. Trent should be back any day now, but…they're all good guys, Jude. It's not any of them." 

                She made a mental note. Donna, whoever she was, was immediately ruled out in her mind—the black overcoat and fedora had definitely belonged to a man. The other two remained suspect to her, no matter what Bill claimed. 

                "Did you get a look at him?" Bill asked. 

                She shook her head. "No, too dark."

                He nodded, perplexed. He could think of no one willing to sell out his hard work—his team was loyal. He would never doubt this. Reaching in his back pocket, he retrieved his journal. "So, was this any use?" 

                "Yeah," Jude said amicably. "Not too much practical advice in there, but it was helpful enough. It must have taken you forever to collect all of that information, not to mention that translation. But then again, you always have been a prodigy at Runes." 

                He smiled. "Jealous?" he teased, raising an eyebrow antagonistically; smugly smirking in the darkness.   
                "You only got the highest marks because the professor had a crush on you," she retorted smartly. 

                He shot her a furious glare. "She did not. I just happened to be good at it is all." 

                "If you say so," she said acidly, finding it spectacular fun to wind him up. "I'll bet Adrienne was jealous of Professor Leeves." 

                Bill heard the remark but he didn't react. He was staring straight ahead, silent and tense. She followed his gaze but saw nothing but the dust covered stone floor. 

                "What is it?" she asked but he held a finger to his lips. She fell silent immediately. 

                Bill bent low to the ground, shifting the beam of light to focus on the floor just in front of them. Cautiously, he reached out and gently brushed the sand from the spot and frowned. A number of curious marks scattered about the length of the floor, some covered in a thin layer of dust and sand, others clearly visible, marked the ground in almost unbroken intervals. Jude couldn't make out any meaning in the shapes and lines, no runes she could recall. But as Bill stood, she could see a tense apprehension heighten in him, making his features harsher as he scowled at the corridor in front of them. 

                "A trap?" she whispered without knowing why she was speaking quietly. There seemed to be little danger, but his reaction urged her on to extreme caution. He nodded solemnly, still studying the floor. 

                "It's cursed," he said finally. "I don't know with what spell, though. These marks…I've never seen them before." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Shrugging, he said carelessly, "Well, here goes nothing." 

                He stepped out into the midst of the markings, putting his foot down cautiously on an area that was not etched in the strange runes. Jude held her breath, watching him tensely. As he put his full weight onto the floor, he seemed just as shocked as Jude that nothing happened. He waved at her to follow him. 

                "Step exactly where I do," he said tersely. She nodded and did as she was told, keeping the beam rigidly on the floor. 

                When they reached the opposite end, Bill bent to the ground once more, blowing away the dust before him. "Bloody hell!" he whispered. The floor was covered in unending lines of the runes, a good meter's distance before the ground cleared and the runes disappeared. "We're going to have to jump it." 

                Jude hung her head wearily as she balanced on a narrow space of unmarked floor, about three paces behind him. He turned to her questioningly, pressing his lips together in a frown as he watched her. She looked dead on her feet. Biting his lip, he turned away from her and moved his glance up the walls, which were covered in paintings and hieroglyphs depicting green-faced mummies, one holding a scepter. Osiris, god of the dead, he noted with apprehension. Letting his eyes wander to the ceiling, he saw more exposed beams, but much to his chagrin, these were a good fifteen or so meters up—a high ceiling. He wouldn't be able to get a rope over that without a counter weight on the other end. 

                Looking back, he asked her abruptly, "Can you make it?" 

                She glanced up at him and nodded, exhausted. "Yeah."

                He turned back to examine the thick border of runes and shook his head. "Liar," he quietly called to her. He looked back up at the beam ruefully. Something, he needed something to weigh the rope down, but there was nothing, not a rock, a stone. The torch was heavy in his hand as he searched desperately around him for something. Glancing at his fingers wrapped tightly around the light, he smiled. The torch was heavy enough to use if he managed to tie it securely. 

                "Jude," he called back to her. "I need your torch." 

                She frowned at him, reluctant to give him her only source of light. "Catch," she called back finally and tossed it into the air, praying that he would catch it and not let it fall to the ground and activate the sinister-looking runes. She suddenly felt very alone and isolated as the dark enveloped her. 

                Stretching out his hand, he snatched the heavy torch out of the air easily. Propping it between his chin and shoulder, he aimed the beam in front of him. He uncoiled the rope from his other shoulder and quickly set about the task of tying one end to the other torch securely. Tugging on it, he assured himself that it was tight, he slung the contraption in wide arcs through the air above his head. He sent it flying as high as he could manage and watched, pleased as it cleared the beam with several inches to spare. The torch pulled the rope over and swung back and forth over the ground. Bill caught it and tied it quickly to the other end of the rope securely, tethering the rope to the beam. "C'mon," he said, beckoning her to him. 

                She hopped with effort from her bit of rune-less earth to one closer to him. With a last-ditch effort, she jumped from that spot to his narrow bit, landing hard on his foot. He caught her before she overbalanced and fell backward onto the markings. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her closely to him and handed her the rope. 

                "This going to hold?" she asked skeptically. 

                He looked at the beam judiciously. "Yeah." Still, he couldn't make himself sound sure enough to convince her. 

                Inhaling a deep breath, she gripped the rope tightly, ignoring the pain in her hands and the sting of her tired muscles, and she pushed herself off the ground roughly. Gritting her teeth, she didn't look down at the floor, but up at the beam. The rope creaked and she felt the wooden strut give way in the earth and brick wall. There was a sudden jerk and she felt herself fall a few inches before she heard the loud crack that announced the beam's fall. She slammed against the ground hard, feeling the breath leave her lungs harshly. Struggling for breath, she looked frantically up just in time to see the large beam dislodge itself from the wall, tearing huge chunks of stone from it. It careened at an impossible rate toward the ground, toward her. Closing her eyes, she threw herself sideways, rolling clear of the hulking beam just before it crashed to the floor in a mass of wood and stone and dust. 

                Bill stood, wide-eyed, staring at the beam that now blocked her from his view. It rested beneath the cloud of dust stretching from one wall to the other, rocks and pebbles rolling to a rest at his feet. The rubble was waist high, covering the wide band of runes entirely. 

                He heard it before he saw anything. A fast patter of mostly fleshless feet clacking on the stone of the floor behind him, warning him that something was coming his way. Glancing over his shoulder, he breathed the word "Bugger!" and set off toward the wall of mud brick and stone, scampering over the debris as fast as he could climb, torch in hand. He jumped down on the other side of the small hill and he could still hear the ghastly footsteps, gaining ground swiftly. Running, he paused only minimally to pull Jude to her feet, shoving the pistol into her hands as he pulled out his wand. "You know how to use this?" 

                She took the gun and released the safety expertly, glancing over her shoulder. In that instant she saw what made the unsettling patter—four gruesomely pale heads peeked over the rubble, advancing over the debris with a mechanical sort of motion. As they gripped the rocks and mortar that had been the walls, she watched, disgusted as bits of ancient flesh tore away from the brittle bones of the fingers. The creatures hissed and snarled, their decaying mouths gaping open under dried and contracted skin that had once been lips, cheeks, a fully formed face. The skin was now stretched like leather over the thin framework of facial bones, the eyes hollow and empty. 

                Bill grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her behind him. "Run!" he yelled and she did not hesitate. He took off behind her as fast as he could, not looking back. Huffing, she felt her chest burning with the effort to breath as she forced herself to run further, harder. Her legs ached and stung but she ignored it. Bill beside her tried in vain to keep the light steady in front of them, but still it jerked around wildly, careening madly down the path ahead of them. Bill constantly glanced over his shoulder, but Jude kept her eyes glued to the path. The snarling and hissing was growing louder in her ears, washing away even the sound of her heart pounding in her ears and her harsh breathing. Clenching the pistol in a tight fist, she pounded the ground hard with her feet, struggling to put distance between her and that sound. Her pace was steady and quick, and therefore it was quite a task to stop dead in her tracks. 

                There was a wide, yawning black gap in the path ahead of her. Skidding painfully, her bare feet scraping to a halt on the rough ground, she managed to stop before she went over. Throwing a hand out, she was able to catch Bill before he took a dive over the edge. She grabbed the torch from his hand and shined the light over the precipice. Two meters beyond and just about the same distance down was another ledge, bordered steeply by a rough wall that evened out at the level where they stood now. "Oh no. Not again," Jude groaned pitifully. This time there was no beam over head that was exposed and, in any case, they were without a rope. Bill's lay in the heaps of ruins behind the snarling little beasts and Jude's had gone over the edge in her effort not to join it on the perilous path where she'd given Bill his bloody nose. 

                Bill turned immediately back to the clattering of the bony feet on the stony floor and grabbing her by the arm roughly, drug her after him as he ran toward the frightening sound. Still gripping her hand tightly, he changed his direction abruptly. He dragged her at an insane pace, heading straight for the cavernous hole. At the edge, Bill wrapped his arms tightly around her and flung them both over the side. 

                Jude squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in his shoulder, not daring to look. After a moment of stomach-lurching free fall, they both smashed into the ground with a crushing force. She rolled away from him and came to rest face up on the ground just next to the ragged wall that led back up to the path. Coughing, she turned her head painfully to the other side of the path, and saw with horror that the little buggers were leaping over the ravine easily, effortlessly. Struggling, she got to her feet shakily, the gun still clutched in her sweaty palm. Looking around frantically, she grabbed up the torch. Sweeping it around the area, she saw the four small, corpse-like beings land at the edge of the ravine, advancing maliciously at her, moving slowly, purposefully. Each little demon held a rusty, ancient-looking scimitar, the light of her torch glinting off of them malignly. 

                She ran quickly to Bill's side. He was lying with his face pressed to the ground. She shook him and helped him to his feet, nodding over her shoulder at the mindless advance of the four mobile dead. Tightening his fingers around his wand, he pushed her back to the wall. "Stay back," he said bravely. 

                "Hell no, Bill," she bellowed angrily. "I will not stay back. Tell me the counter curse and I can help you."

                He shook his head adamantly. "No! You can't. It's a powerful spell. With someone of your ability wielding it, you could bloody well bring the roof down on our heads." 

                She frowned yet still she stepped up next to him, facing down the menacing demons. "Can a bullet stop them?" she asked, glancing at the pistol in her hand. 

                "I doubt it," Bill said darkly, backing away from the sword-wielding figures clawing their way forward on dry, bony feet, hissing ferociously. "But it's worth a shot." 

                She planted her feet and raised her hand to shoulder level and pulled the trigger, feeling the kickback immediately. The skeletal creature she'd aimed at screeched loudly, falling back with the impact. Jude smirked and aimed at the next demon, but her expression darkened instantly as the first ghastly figure launched itself wildly at her, agitated by the gunshot. 

                Bill cast spell after spell at the two creatures mercilessly advancing on him. They blocked his curses expertly with the glinting scimitars, sending them ricocheting back toward him. He ducked and dodged them, never abating in his frequency, keeping the little buggers busy. 

                Jude's eyes flew wide as the walking dead thing charged her, the other close behind it. Grabbing at her with its bony, rotted hand, swinging at her with the aged blade, it clawed for her. She alternately fired the pistol, driving one back with bullets as she beat the other back with the heavy torch still clutched in her hand. With one satisfying blow, she dislodged the arm of one of the creatures, sending it flying, sword still grasped in its bone and withered fleshy clutches, over the edge. But still it came at her, missing an arm, but not slackening in its ferocity or desire to rip her apart. Its necrotic companion continued to slash maniacally at her, in downward and side-to-side motions, putting her through her paces with the torch as her only guard against the blade. Still parrying blows, her attention was divided between both creatures, one pushing her back with vicious thrusts of the scimitar and the other grasping with one sharp, fleshless hand. It staggered with every bullet she shot, but always it came back at her with equal strength. 

                Jumping aside as a scimitar came slicing down at the floor, Bill managed to get his foot over the blade and pin it to the ground. The creature tugged at the sword, screeching and snarling. Bill aimed a curse at the demon. It hit its mark dead on, sending the demon flying before it completely disintegrated into a cloud of floury dust, leaving only its putrid stench behind. Grabbing up the sword, Bill blocked the other creature's furious blow one handed, still firing curses with the other hand. The gangling corpse slashed violently down ward as Bill staggered back with the force of the last blow and the demon landed a glancing strike at his shoulder. Bill howled with pain, lashing out with his scimitar sideways. The blow severed the walking corpse's head from its thin, withered neck like a snapped, brittle tree root, twisted and gnarled. The head, with its partial tuft of straw-like and decaying hair on a crumbling skull, rolled a few paces away. Yet the body of the grotesque, corporeal demon, continued to charge, slashing blindly with the sword. Feeling the wound on his shoulder stinging as he parried the strong, ferocious attacks, Bill panted and gave more ground. He was tiring fast but the demon showed no signs of wearying. Chancing a glance at Jude, he noticed that she was still beset by two demons, although one had lost its sword. He turned his gaze back to the creature that refused to abate in its mission, he knew he could do nothing for her at the moment. 

                Jude aimed, pulled the trigger, blocked the scimitar and then repeated the process again and again. But this time the gun clicked benignly. No more bullets. Staring in shock at the useless gun, she felt the corpse lay hold of her wrist, clamping down with its chalky-boned and paper-skinned fingers, it seized her arm with its remaining hand and its teeth. She yelled in pain, blocking the scimitar fiercely, pushing the other creature back before bringing the torch down hard on the brittle skull of the one that had her wrist pinned in its sharp jaws. The bone shattered, leaving just a skeletal hand clamped on her arm that was still attached to the headless, decomposed body. The hiss of a sword prompted her to duck and she felt the whiz of the blade over her head. As she dropped the ground, she kicked out with her foot, sweeping it behind the headless corpse, catching it behind the cracking tendons of the knees. It crashed to the ground around her feet, releasing her. She turned her attention to the demon that held its scimitar over her head, ready to strike the fatal blow. Pressing herself close to the ground, she waited for the blow to fall. It brought the blade down with all the force in its withered yet strong limbs. Just inches from her face, she rolled away from the blade as it sliced into the soft, thick rock of the ledge. The demon struggled to pull the sword from the rock, tugging angrily at it. Jude stepped lightly around it as it hissed and growled at her and, swinging the torch like a baseball bat, putting all of the strength she had left into the blow. It landed in the gooey midsection of the corpse, shattering the bones of the ribs and sending the remains of the vital organs flying. The severed and rent bodies still clawed at her, pulling themselves along the floor with their sharp, brittle fingers. She brought the torch down on the head of the second demon, the one bisected by the blow to the torso, feeling the skull crack sickeningly like an eggshell. The ribs of the second crawling and clawing corpse shattered with the last blow Jude could muster. Backing away a few paces, she sank to the ground, watching the bones writhe and clamor for her weakly. 

                Parrying another blow, feeling the force reverberate through his blade, Bill swung his sword laterally at the last demon, pinning it against the wall, the scimitar embedded in the rotting flesh and bone and rock. Still holding the blade above its head, it brought it down on Bill with its last motion. Bill leaped aside and shouted the curse that turned the vicious demon corpse into a fine dust, the scent of death heavy as it dissipated. The sword fell lifelessly to his feet. He turned his head wearily to his side and saw Jude sitting on her knees, torch grasped tightly in one hand, pistol wound fiercely in her fingers of the other hand. She was staring blankly at the last two demons, reduced to partial entities, clawing and scrabbling at her, inching forward with the last of their power. She panted heavily, watching with a wry amusement that Bill found a bit creepy. He dispelled the last demons easily and walked over to her cautiously. 

                Tentatively, he placed a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him slowly. She took in his disheveled and grimy appearance. His hair had come out of its short ponytail partially, his face was speckled with a dingy, black sludge and blood trickled down his arm. Raising the gun above her head, she handed it to him without much thought to her actions. 

                "You're out of bullets," she said blankly. 

                He took the pistol from her limp fingers and stuck it back in his belt, staring curiously at her. Wiping the grime and sweat from his face, he reached a hand down to her and helped her to her feet. "Are you alright?" he asked cautiously, surveying her quickly. She appeared fine, considering. 

                She nodded, looking him over. "But you're not," she observed flatly. Pointing to his shoulder, she remarked, "You're bleeding."

                Glancing at his shoulder, he saw that his shirtsleeve was covered in the thick, red liquid. It stung quite a bit, but he gritted his teeth and said, "It's nothing." 

                She didn't buy it. Turning him around roughly, she pulled up his sleeve and he grimaced. The wound was superficial, but quite deep, made with a filthy blade. "Hold still," she said quietly and held up her left hand, quickly unwrapping the stiff, worn gauze. Her hand was swollen, covered with cuts and the dominating burn, but it had stopped bleeding already. 

                He glanced down at her as she worked silently. Realizing what she was doing, he spoke against it. "No, Jude…it's not that bad, really." 

                "You're right, it's not, so be still and quit being a baby," she chastised him, winding the thin material around his lacerated shoulder, tying it tightly. He winced and she shook her head disapprovingly. "You good to climb this?" she said, nodding to the cliff that separated them from the continued path. 

                He sized up the climb with one look and nodded. "Yeah. You?" 

                "Yeah," she answered flatly, clearly exhausted. 

                Bill walked over to the wall, surveying the rock. It was jagged enough to provide hand and footholds, and not that tall. "You go first, I'll follow," he insisted and she didn't argue. 

                She handed him the torch and put her foot up on the wall, reaching over her head and grasping a handful of rock. Her hands ached and her arms burned, but she soldiered onward, ignoring the pain. Once she was a meter or so up, she looked back to see how Bill was making out. He looked just as tired as she felt and for a moment she felt the slightest twinge of guilt for having gotten him into all of this. Feeling a rock crumble from beneath her aching fingers, she grasped madly for another handhold, yelling back to Bill to watch for the rocks that were tumbling down from her perch on the wall. Just another foot or so and she'd have reached the top. She grasped at another rock, mentally repeating to herself "Hand, then a foothold." Placing a bare foot on a jagged rock, she slipped, the stone cutting viciously into her foot. She gritted her teeth and felt around for another foothold. There was none, the only rock having broken away. Her other foot was too far down to give her an ample push to the top. Her face contorted in strenuous effort, she struggled to pull herself up by her arms. Her wrists felt ready to snap, her fingers raw and bloody, her arms burning with expended energy they no longer possessed. Somehow, she felt herself pull up over the lip of the rock. She paused, resting with her chest pressed against the surface, unable to move. With one last effort, she swung her legs up over the edge and turned, laying with her belly on the ground, extending her hand over the side, reaching for Bill. He'd reached the same impossible area she had just passed, but because he was over a head taller than her, he made easier work of it. He grasped her hand thankfully and she pulled him over. 

                They both collapsed, letting their legs dangle, staring up at the blackened ceiling, breathing as if they'd just completed a marathon. Bill reached around for the torch, shoved in his pocket and clicked it on, raising his head just enough to look out over the ravine, he glanced over the other end of the path. 

                "Are there anymore?" Jude asked between ragged breaths. 

                "No," he said gratefully, dropping his head back to the ground. After a few moments of silence, he said, "I guess we better get going."

                She nodded in the dark and reluctantly pulled herself to her feet. "So where now?" she said, taking a look around. Just ahead the corridor split of to the right and the left. 

                Reaching for his journal, he opened it and shined the light on it. "Right," he said with finality. 

                "Are you sure?" Jude asked patronizingly. Right was always against her natural inclination. Right-handed people chose right. She was left-handed. 

                "Yep," he answered simply. 

                She turned to him, frowning. "How can you be sure?" 

                "Because," he said, tapping the journal on his open palm, "the translation says that Amenhotep III was buried facing south, a sign of dishonor. His priests were none too happy with him for commissioning the Ankh of Amun Re. After it was finished, they feared he would call down the god's wrath on them and so they murdered him, burying him in disgrace—albeit not publicly—but disgraced in the afterlife. Traditionally, mummies face the outside walls of the tomb, their feet toward the passage that leads into the burial chamber. We came in from the south and that passage," he explained, pointing in the direction of the path leading off to the left, "leads south. If he is buried there, then the priests would have hidden the Ankh in the opposite direction."

                "Oh," she said weakly, taking his word for it. 

                Sweeping the beam out and taking in the walls and floor, he grabbed her hand and walked quickly to the right. "C'mon," he said with a bit of excitement, moving briskly into the unknown of a new passage. It opened, to Jude's surprise, into a large, magnificent treasury. Columns stretched away into the dark of the ceiling that was so high, the light failed to penetrate the shadows. All were carved of rich alabaster and etched in beautiful images of royal opulence. Piles of sparkling gold and silver, glittering, stained-glass colored gems lay scattered throughout, massive gilded chests and furniture lined the walls and spilled over the stone floor, leaving only a narrow path snaking through it. A door bordered with bright paintings lead off further into another northward leading passage. 

                Jude looked up at Bill, who was grinning from ear to ear. He dropped her hand and strode quickly over to the nearest pile, fetching his journal once again from his pocket. Jotting quick notes, his eyes roved over the glimmering treasures. Amazed, Jude moved to stand next to him, glancing up at the shimmering piles in wonder. She didn't think places like this actually existed—sure they did in storybooks like _Arabian Nights_—but not in real life. She half-expected to find some tarnished bronze lamp, home to a genie, just itching to grant wishes. Indeed this was just the place to find it if such things were possible. Sure rugs could be enchanted to fly, but no one had yet to come up with a being that lived to make their finders rich and famous, etc. 

                Noticing her standing in awe next to him, he turned to her and warned her gently not to touch anything. "It could be cursed," he said cautiously, taking out his wand. Remembering what happened last time, the picture of those gruesome little demon corpses coming unbidden to her mind, she frowned, incredulously. 

                "I'm not stupid, you know, Bill. And it wasn't my fault," she began but stopped, feeling the ridiculousness of her words. She knew he wasn't blaming her but she felt the need nonetheless to make him see that she was on the same level with him, that she was capable of handling herself, that she was not a child. 

                Not wanting the chance to pass him by, he looked up at her accusingly. "You broke the beam," he said with a devious smirk. 

                Dropping her jaw, she stared at him, offended. "I did not! That beam was broken to begin with! If it had been your fat arse, you would have taken the whole roof with you!" She turned on her heels and stalked of to the next room. "If that damn Ankh isn't in here, then we'd better get a move on," she called back tersely. 

                "Wait," Bill yelled to her, hastily finishing his notes and replacing the pencil in the spine of the journal. "I haven't finished cataloguing. This is fantastic!" he said excitedly, coming up to her. He pointed his wand at the nearest pile and said a quiet incantation before picking up a magnificent gold and what appeared to be ruby ring. "This will definitely get me that promotion!"

                Jude stared at him incredulously. "I can't believe you people. That belongs in a museum," she said caustically. "Hasn't Gringotts ever heard of lending money at interest?" 

                He shrugged. "Of course they have," he said, pocketing the ring. "But this brings in way more revenue—and its much more fun than interest."

                Shaking her head, she continued on. "You don't see it in here, do you?" she said before plunging once again into a dark passage. 

                "Nah," he said judiciously. "It wouldn't be that easy. This stuff could easily fall into the hands of grave robbers." 

                "Or treasure hunters," she said with a sardonic smile. 

                "Right," he said, smirking. "With something that risky, it will be well hidden. You can count on that."

                This dark passage, Jude noted with surprise, was not like the others. It was lined with the same rich, alabaster columns as the treasury, but was not nearly so expansive as the grand room. Bill paused more often now to consult his journal, making little notes and flipping through to reference several hieroglyphs. She watched him curiously, feeling useless, trying to stay out of the way. 

                "We're on the right track," he said finally. "This is almost the exact same passage as the papyrus." 

                "What does it say?" she asked, stepping up beside him. 

                He leaned closer to her, pointing out the symbols. "That says 'The high priest of the lord, Amun Re, does bless this temple. With the mighty power of the king of the gods, he protects and sanctifies all that is his.' That's the gist of it anyway," he said shrugging his shoulder. 

                She nodded. "Basically, an "All ye who enter, Beware!" deal." 

                He laughed. "Yeah, that's about it." 

                She was about to ask him to read more when she tensed at his side. Noticing that he'd done the same, she listened carefully for the sound again, feeling the acute sense of déjà vu. Indeed there were footsteps walking a few paces before stopping only to resume again in the next instant. Bill moved suddenly and decisively at her side, shoving her sideways against a column, her back pressed against the cold alabaster. He stepped close in front of her and pulled his pistol out of his belt, raising it to his shoulder, the barrel toward the ceiling. 

                "It's not even loaded," she whispered incredulously, sensing the ridiculous in the situation. 

                "He doesn't know that," he whispered back, pressing closer against her, staying in the shadow. His words informed her that he suspected who she expected it to be. Voldemort's servant. 

                She tried in vain to slow her breathing but that seemed to make it sound even louder in her ears. Hugging the column, there was nothing for them but to wait tensely for the man to appear. It seemed a short eternity before the footsteps reached the corridor where they hid. Jude held her breath and felt Bill do the same against her. One step followed the other in a calm succession. The man didn't seem in a hurry to Jude and that was a little unsettling to her. Calculating, cat-like, the steps paced evenly approaching level to the column they'd ducked behind. Calmly, Bill extended his arm, placing the muzzle of the gun against the unsuspecting stranger's head. Immediately the man froze and held up his hands at his side, a pistol clenched in his right hand. Bill plucked it from his grasp and told him to turn, facing him. 

                "Aw, bloody hell, Bill!" the man said, dropping his arms, relaxing a great deal. "You scared the shit out of me!"

                "Trent?" Bill said, confused and more than a bit perturbed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

                "I could ask you the same," he said smoothly. His eyebrows rose suggestively as he noted Jude peeking out of the shadow of the column. "Ah, I see," he said with a rakish smile. "Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through to get a bit of privacy though, don't you think, mate? You could have just asked the boys to clear out of your tent."   
                "What's going on, Trent?" Bill demanded, not a bit amused. "I could have blown your head off."

                "Easy, mate," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I got back to camp and the wards were going crazy. I thought I should check it out." Frowning, he added suspiciously, "Seriously, though, what are you doing here?" 

                Bill explained in sketchy detail what was going on as Jude took in the newcomer. He had a high-culture suavity about him—he wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of khaki trousers and brown loafers. A leather whip was slung over his shoulder in place of a rope. His sandy hair was pristinely kept and he was tan. His voice was slightly familiar, though she couldn't quite place it. Probably someone around her year in Hogwarts, or maybe from Cambridge, she couldn't put a finger on it. 

                "And you are?" he said, extending a hand to her. 

                Embarrassed, she looked away quickly, chiding herself for having gawked at the man. "Jude," she said tentatively, surprised she could even remember her own name. She took his hand and he gently pulled her from behind Bill. 

                "A pleasure, Jude," he said dashingly. "Trent's the name." He said it like a film star and she could not help but smile. 

                Bill groaned and turned back to the path. "You coming along, I suspect?" he called back to Trent. 

                "Course, mate. I take it this means you've finished translating it," he said jovially, falling into step next to Jude. 

                "Yep," Bill said succinctly. 

                "And?" he prompted. "Did I miss anything cool?" 

                Jude laughed bemusedly and Bill smirked. "Nah. You didn't miss anything." He favored his friend with a backwards glance. 

                Trent stared at him. "Bloody Hell! What happened to you, Bill?" he said, staring at his face. 

                "She happened," Bill confessed. 

                Looking appraisingly at her, Trent congratulated her on a job well done. Turning his attention grudgingly back to Bill, he asked, "Are we looking for what I think were looking for?" 

                "The Ankh?" Bill asked. "Yeah, we are." 

                "Huh," Trent said a bit doubtfully. "You still think this thing exists?" 

                "Yep," Bill answered tersely. "I do." 

                He turned to Jude. "That's our Bill. Always chasing fantasies."

                She smiled obligingly. 

                They continued to march into the darkness, Bill in the lead, light trained on the ground ahead, silent and deep in concentration, Trent and Jude following closely behind. Trent was in constant discussion with his quiet partner, telling Jude about their many escapades, how many times he'd saved Bill's neck and how many times the favor had been returned. Typical macho jabber, Jude thought as she listened to him politely. Their progress continued in such a manner, Trent talking constantly, Bill and Jude silent, until the colonnaded corridor ended abruptly in another grand room. Bill held the beam of his light high and Trent followed suit with is own torch. 

                The room was spectacular from what Jude could see. It was empty of everything—save brightly colored mosaics on the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. A large glittering sun spread beneath their feet, its rays extending to the base of the walls. Grand columns rose on either side of the doors that led off from each of the four walls—four openings in a perfectly squared room. The doorway they'd come from, Jude turned to behold, was pained a deep blue, a man of the same color rising to the high ceiling above it. 

                "That's Hapy, the god of the Nile." Trent bent next to her ear, whispering and pointing over her shoulder with his torch. "This door faces east, toward the river." Turning her gently to face the south wall, he repeated his instruction. This wall was covered in a green and gray mosaic, depicting a seated mummy, green-faced and bearded, holding crossed scepters. "Osiris, guardian of the dead," he said. 

                "And of renewed life," Bill corrected him. "Don't remember much of your Plutarch, do you mate?" 

                "No need for it," he said jovially, trying to save face. "The only time that would come in handy is if I ever met the fellow. Don't suppose I'll be doing that soon." He smiled at Jude and she returned it sheepishly, sensing some sort of tension between him and Bill, even though an easy friendship still existed. She couldn't help but feel guilty for this—Bill was jealous, she could tell. And the thought that she was the cause of all of this was mortifying. She stepped away from Trent casually, disengaging herself from him neutrally, and pointed at the far, western wall. 

                "Who's that?" she asked amicably, staring curiously at a man with a bird's head. 

                Bill was thumbing through his journal, looking for a particular passage, but glanced up at her question. "That's Re, the sun god. In conjunction with the god Amun, they form the one supreme deity, supported by this dynasty," he said informatively before glancing back down at his journal. 

                She frowned, feeling that somehow she'd offended him. The thought angered her, sensing that she had unwittingly become a pawn in some stupid rivalry. "And that?" she said, pointing at the last wall, the north-facing wall. It was simply a man, a pharaoh probably. He wore a tall white crown that looked like a jug, and held a scepter. 

                "Horus," Bill said without looking up. 

                Trent came up to her, glaring pointedly at Bill. "Horus was the god of the living, son of Osiris and Isis. When Seth, Osiris' brother, cut him up into tiny pieces in a grab for the throne of the gods, myth has it that Isis gathered all the pieces of her husband and put him back together. That's why he's portrayed as a mummy—and associated with renewed life. Horus vowed to avenge his father's death, representing judgment and dynastic might." Trent smiled happily, turning to Bill. "According to Plutarch, that is," he said smartly. 

                Jude shook her head, walking over to the columns that lined the doorway under the giant mosaic of Horus. She couldn't read them, but the picture of a standing bird repeated quite often. A hawk, maybe—she couldn't tell. She stood examining the curious pictograms, running her hand over the smooth lines in the alabaster. The hieroglyphs were formed of crystalline obsidian—a deep, glossy black on the rich, creamy white. It was really quite beautiful. Turning to look about the room, she noticed that all of the columns were made out of the same rich stone. She looked back at the door she stood in front of, peering inside. Darkness was all she saw beyond, nothing more. 

                Impatiently, she looked back to Bill. He stood in the center of the room, in the middle of the mosaic sun, bent over his journal, Trent looking intently over his shoulder, deep in conversation. Reluctantly, desperate not to cause any further uncomfortable tension, she made her way quietly over to them. She tried to hear what they were saying, but she couldn't make it out until she'd come within two or three paces of them. 

                "No, that's _neb,_" Bill said, pointing at a picture in his journal. "Amun Re neb ns. wt ta wy neb ptah mry. Amun Re, lord of thrones of the two lands, lord of heaven, beloved."

                "Ink wy hr nty im stp Wsir nswt. I wrap my arms around the one who is in me that I may secure the protection of Osiris King," Trent read, furrowing his brow. "Doesn't make sense, mate. The priests were asking for Osiris' protection for what?" He shook his head. "Shouldn't they be asking Amun Re? I mean, they were priests of the bugger's cult, right?"

                "Yeah," Bill agreed, frowning. "That doesn't make sense." He continued to read. "Htp-di-nsw.t Wsir neb nhh. An offering, which the king gives to Osiris, lord of eternity." He looked up at Trent quickly. "They placed it somewhere in that room. 'An offering, which the king gives to Osiris, lord of eternity.'" He took a few swift steps toward the door, eyes wide with excitement. 

                Both Bill and Trent reached for their torches and headed in to the darkened passage, leaving her forgotten in the middle of the expansive pantheon. However much she was relieved to have been forgotten, she didn't like to be left behind. She quickly jogged over to the passage and followed the two men, the light of their torches just inside the door. The passage was nothing more than a smaller room with a lower ceiling, not nearly as magnificent as the outer chamber. 

                Bill flipped another page in the journal and Trent joined him in examining the text, leaving Jude to wander around, taking in the hieroglyphs etching the walls. "Re n wn re n zn.' A spell of opening. This is how to find it," he announced excitedly to his friend. 

Jude looked back but did not leave her spot by the wall. 

"All we have to do is say 'Amun Re neb dt,' Amun Re, eternal lord." Bill snapped the journal shut, looking around at the walls. "But where? It obviously is a place-specific charm. This says nothing of where it might be in this room," he said, tapping the journal on his open palm thoughtfully. 

"Bill," Jude called to him, "I think I found something." She stood with her face inches from the wall, staring intently at a pictograph. 

Trent came up beside her followed by Bill. They faced a picture carved in obsidian on a field of white alabaster of a seated man with a bird's head, balancing a circle, or a sun-disk, on its crown. Next to the picture was a curious cross pictograph. 

"Is that…?" Jude asked.

"The Ankh," Bill said with wonder, comparing it to a picture drawn meticulously in his journal. The match was perfect. "This is it. All I have to do is say the incantation. But the problem is…no one really knows what ancient Egyptian sounds like. It's a dead language."

Jude shook her head. "There can't be any harm in trying, can there?" 

"I don't know," he said doubtfully. Looking at the wall and then glancing down at the page of the journal, he set his jaw resolutely. "Here goes nothing." He uttered the incantation as Jude held her breath. Trent had moved back to give him space and was watching the proceedings a pace or two behind them. 

Wide-eyed, Jude watched as the obsidian on the wall slowly grew in size, changing from a deep and luminous black hieroglyph into a large, gold cross-like amulet, obsidian writing snaking over the surface. It was shaped like a Christian cross, only the top prong was a loop. In a moment it had stopped growing, changing, now the size of a hand-span. It fell heavily into Bill's open palm. 

He smiled at Jude, sighing wearily. She smiled back genuinely. "Well, it's yours to destroy now, I guess. Just wait till we're out of this place until you blast the thing to hell, alright?" he said, handing her the Ankh. 

She took it cautiously, feeling its weight in her hands. It was beautiful and terrible in the same instant. 

"Bad luck," Trent said behind them, drawing their attention from the amulet. "It doesn't look as if you'll get that opportunity, darling." He stood in front of them, pistol leveled steadily in their direction, blocking the door. "Expelliarmus!" he bellowed, effectively relieving Bill of his wand and gun. Catching both with little effort, he pocketed the spare, unloaded pistol and held the wand in his free hand. "If you don't mind, Jude," he said smoothly, reaching out for the Ankh. 

Scowling, she clutched the amulet to her chest and glared angrily at him. "It was you. You were the man in the forest," she said harshly. 

He cocked his head to the side and stared at her curiously. "Me? I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about." 

"In the Black Forest," she said coldly, still clinging to the gold Ankh. "You were talking to Voldemort, you were the servant He sent to bring Him back this," she bellowed, nodding to the golden cross. 

"Ah, a spy?" he asked, amused. "Well, good try then, anyway," he said, striding over to pluck the object from her hands. As he reached out for it, she pushed it at Bill and grabbed the gun from Trent's belt, aiming it at his head. 

Weapons trained on each other, they held a tense glare that was almost palpable. 

"Weasley, give me the Ankh, or I'll kill her. This is no fucking joke, mate."

Bill didn't move. Trent cocked the gun with an audible click. 

From the corner of her eye, Jude saw Bill reach the Ankh slowly to Trent. "Bill, don't you dare!" she bellowed angrily. 

Trent took the amulet with a greedy, grasping hand. Jude let the gun fall from her grip in profound disappointment. Gesturing with the pistol, Trent motioned for them to move to the far end of the room. Shoving the Ankh in his waistband along with Jude's pistol, he removed the wand and leveled it at them as well as his gun. With one swift spell, thin strong chords wrapped around their hands and feet. 

Replacing the wand, Trent chuckled. "Thanks, mate. Couldn't have done it without you!"

"I know," Bill said scathingly. Trent's expression fell momentarily into a detesting frown. 

Stepping through the door, he tossed a lit torch into the room. "Aufwiedersehen," he said smiling regretfully at Jude. He bellowed a curse and the walls shook with a great force. Jude pressed herself flat against the floor and Bill followed suit, throwing himself over her as great chunks of the ceiling came crashing down around them. In what seemed like a scant second, heaps of rock and brick barred the entrance, spilling into the middle of the room. 

Blinking and coughing in the dark, the torch out of reach and buried under debris, Jude picked herself up off of the ground, magically unbinding her hands and ankles. She helped Bill to free himself and then slumped wearily against the wall. 

"Well," she said darkly, "now what?"

Author's Note: Once again I must place a huge disclaimer on the skewed history presented in this chapter—descriptions of the pantheon of the gods and the associated cosmogonies are accurate, as are the transliterations of the hieroglyphs (yes, they actually mean what I say they mean). However, the applications of this history are inaccurate and I would feel very vile indeed if I simply tried to brush over that fact. A historian by training, I have dedicated many hours to research on this subject, but in the mission to write a compelling storyline I've had to fudge history a bit. The Ankh and Amenhotep III's bid for power is completely my fiction and not history, as is this tomb my characters are wandering about in. Amenhotep is buried in the Valley of the Kings, but whether or not his tomb is number 18, I do not know. The historical facts I have pulled from Rosalie David's _Handbook to Life in Ancient Egypt_ and the hieroglyphs and their translations have come from Karl-Theodor Zauzich's _Hieroglyphen Ohne Geheimnis (Hieroglyphs Without Mystery). _The Opening Spell was taken from a translation in Zauzich's work from _The Book Of The Dead_.  There will be a complete bibliography at the end of this story. 

Thanks to my wonderful reviewers! Roll Call: **Black Dragon** (as always, thank you for your unparalleled enthusiasm for my story—people like you make the hard work worth it), **Mags **(fan art? For my little story? Shucks, girl, I'm flattered!), **Minerva of Tortall **(thanks! I'm so glad you like it—usually people see OC and run screaming for the hills), **Sk8reagle** (I personally don't think my first 17 or so chapters are great—this was the first thing I've ever written—so I hope you stick around long enough to read these chapters, which are my favorites so far), and last but certainly not least **Linda** (what can I say? You are my review guru!). 

                  
  
 


	44. A Natural Balance

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original characters and material are the property of the author. 

Author's Note: At the end, folks. 

Chapter Forty-Four: A Natural Balance

_'For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.' Isaac Newton, Third Law of Motion._

                "Well," Jude said into the thick darkness, "now what?" She stood shakily to her feet, but remained still, not knowing where to go. The dark was absolute and blinding. Reaching behind her, she felt the solid presence of the far wall, getting her bearings. 

                She heard Bill grunt and get to his feet next to her. "We dig for that torch," he instructed wearily. "I can't even think in this bloody dark!"

                Feeling with her feet, she walked tentatively forward until she felt the litter of dust and pebbles give way to larger rocks and chunks of brick. "He threw it in the middle, didn't he? Do you think it still works?" she asked as she bent cautiously to her hands and knees, feeling for rocks and rolling them away, off of the pile. 

                Bill sighed next to her, straining at the larger chunks of ceiling. "I hope so. Without my wand, we're pretty much fucked!" 

                Jude frowned into the darkness. She felt like protesting, like chastising him for treating her like a stupid child. She didn't understand why he didn't trust her form of magic, even if it was the only thing now that stood between them and certain death. Bill probably blamed her for this whole mess, she thought ruefully, the guilt of having involved him in the first place coming back with a vengeance. "Bill?" she said cautiously, quietly. 

                "Yeah?" he said, his voice strained with the effort of moving blocks of stone from the pile of debris that blocked the door. 

                "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this."

                He answered distractedly, half-heartedly. "Don't worry about it. It's not your fault." Still, his voice betrayed a solemnity that Jude could not mistake for anything other than blame. And the feeling stung deeply. 

                "You're right. It is my fault," she said, gritting her teeth, trying to move a stubborn boulder, before simply falling against it, exhausted. "He's going to take the bloody thing straight to Voldemort. He'll be even more powerful than He was before." 

                Bill stopped straining against the rock, panting hard. "Don't say that, Jude!" he said harshly. "I won't believe that it's over until I see it myself. People are counting on us now to fix this. Our friends and our families, and people we don't even know. We have a duty to them to stop him." 

                "How?" she asked skeptically, resuming her fight with the rock. 

                She heard a large stone topple down the slope near her and above the sound of Bill's voice was just audible. "I have a plan, but first we have to find that bloody torch."

                "A plan?" she groaned, finally dislodging the pesky rock, rolling it away. "A plan to do what? To defeat the now all-powerful, invincible Voldemort?" she spat caustically and plucked at more stones, tossing them aside and tearing at the ones underneath them. Pretty soon she had a sizeable hole in the debris. 

                "Maybe, but I have to check something in the journal. Can't do that without light." 

                Jude frowned. A simple "Lumos" could save them both all of this backbreaking, nonsensical work, but she bit down the urge to offer him that idea. Surely he'd had it and had rejected it as implausible. Perhaps she was dangerous. She scrabbled for more rocks beneath her, but she had finally reached completely to the floor. Moving her head to the left and then to the right, she searched around her for any light at all—the torch, if it still worked, had been switched on when Trent had left them. 

                Dim, in the shadows of even more rocks, she saw the faint, weak beam. Her heart leapt in her chest. Tearing at the rocks, she ignored the pain in her fingers, the red, raw and bleeding skin. Grabbing hold and tugging with all of her might, she was able to pull the wretched thing free, falling back and slamming into the wall of rocks behind her hard. The beam swung wildly about the room. 

                "You found it!" Bill yelled excitedly, clambering over the loose stones to her. 

                "Yeah," she said, coughing and gasping as the impact had knocked the wind from her, "I found it." 

                He reached a hand down and caught the light, setting it steadily on the stones behind him, holding out his hand to her. She grabbed his wrist and put a foot to the rocks, pulling herself up. The light caught the apex of the mountain of rocks she struggled to pull herself up. It was larger than she'd thought and the simple sight of the impossible amounts of effort it would take to get them out made her dizzy with exhaustion. She groaned, flopping over onto her back. 

                Bill took the light and held it over his head as he perched on the rocks next to her. Retrieving his journal once again, she could hear the soft flipping of pages as he searched for a particular note. The sound of the progression through the worn pages ceased and Bill nudged her with his elbow. "Listen to this," he said, staring intently at the page. "When Amenhotep III commissioned his priests to make the sodding thing, his son and heir, Amenhotep IV, broke away from his family's religion, refusing to support the gods, Amun Re in particular. He was exiled by his father and disinherited from the throne. In exile, he invented his own religion, a monotheistic cult dedicated to the worship of the sun disk, the Aten. This son changed his name to Akhenaten. Literally meaning 'the Servant of the Aten." 

                Jude listened silently to the history lesson, wondering how this was going to help them. She would have made known her frustration had she not been completely spent in finding the wretched torch. Nor did she want to break his concentration, though. She wanted to go after Trent right this moment. There was still a possibility that they could catch him and destroy the Ankh. But she couldn't have moved if she wanted to, so she listened patiently for another of Bill's brilliant ideas to save them both, feeling the acute realization that she was utterly useless, a liability. 

                "Akhenaten was so enraged by his father's actions that he severed all ties with the dynasty. Amenhotep had insulted him by desiring immortality—essentially denying him his inheritance. This was the source of the animosity between them. So, under the guise of setting up his own religion, basically worshiping Amun Re under another name, he plotted against his father. Obviously, Akhenaten had no clue that his father's own priests plotted his demise while they worked on the amulet that would give him the power of the god. Akhenaten commissioned his own priests to make another amulet, one to counter the Ankh's powers and to make it just a useless trinket."

                "So there's another amulet?" she said wearily. "Jesus." 

                Bill ignored her and continued to examine the text in his journal. "It says that this amulet is in the shape of a gold medallion—a sun-disk. It has markings on it and a clear crystal in the middle. Apparently the thing was made if there was a description of it, don't you think?" he asked Jude curiously. 

                "Where did this description come from?" she asked skeptically. 

                "From the same papyri I found in this tomb," he announced triumphantly. "And that means if this one exists, then the other one does too."

                She sat up suddenly, wincing with pain. "That means that Trent knows about that one too!" she said frantically. 

                He frowned. "Not necessarily. If I know Trent, he only did a half-assed job on this one, as usual. He was always more of a playboy, an adventurer. In it more for the thrill of the hunt and putting his neck on the line than for the science of it, he was. If I had to bet on it, I'd wager that he read the text only as far as he had to. Once he read the words 'eternal life' and 'power' he probably ran straight to You-Know-Who and announced that he'd found the bloody thing, and then planned to wait for the rest of us to do all of the work." 

                "So he hasn't read further?" she asked expectantly. 

                "I think it's safe to say no." He bit his lip in thought and looked at the journal absently. "But that means we don't have much time before he remembers the rule of thumb." 

                Jude wrinkled her brow and glanced sideways at him. "What's that?" 

                "Everything has a counter. A natural balance—something like the Ankh couldn't exist without an equally powerful object with the opposite ability. Every curse breaker knows that."

                She thought on this for a moment. "Does this medallion have the power to kill the possessor of the Ankh?" 

                Bill shook his head slowly. "No, just to strip the amulet of it's powers."

                "And it was never used against the Ankh, I suppose," she said resignedly. 

                He grinned wearily. "I don't think we'd be so lucky, Jude." 

                Groaning again, she sank back to the rocks and lay facing the ceiling. "How long do you think we have?" 

                Frowning, he took a while to puzzle it out. "Well, you said that You-Know-Who demanded that he have it by the next nightfall. I guess it's been about four hours since I came in here. It's roughly five in the morning, then. If I know Trent, he'll get it to him just in time, as a matter of pride. He won't want it to seem like he's jumping to someone else's whim. He'll want to make him wait. Trent's arrogant to put it mildly," Bill said with feeling. Jude could sense the jealousy creeping back into his voice, although without the bitter sting it held before. "Trent will hand the thing over, make no mistake. He's not stupid. But he won't leave it at that, though. That, I'm assuming is when he'll remember."  
                "Why?" Jude asked blandly. "What would be in it for him if he found the medallion?" 

                "Well," Bill said thoughtfully, "It would bring You-Know-Who down off his throne for one thing. Maybe he fancies himself a world dictator, who knows."

                Jude sat up again and looked at him seriously, setting a battered hand on his. "Bill, I need to know if you think this is worth a shot. I need an honest, no-bullshit answer—does this medallion exist, and can we find it before Trent?" She sighed heavily. "Because if we can't then I have to try to run him down as soon as possible. I don't have much time if that's the only option." 

                He held her gaze steadily. "I think we can," he said evenly, closing his hand over hers. "Jude, I won't lie to you. I don't know exactly where the medallion is. It's not in this tomb for sure, but I know it does exist. And I have a pretty good idea I know where it's hidden." He noticed her expression fall dismally. "Trent will have even less of a clue where it is. Jude, I don't want you to go after him. It's too dangerous if You-Know-Who already has the Ankh."

                She tugged her hand from his and scowled at him. "Do you think I care? I'm not afraid of Him…and I'm not afraid to die for this. My life doesn't matter that much if I can end Him," she said coldly, without feeling. "I don't care if I die." 

                Bill stared at her unwaveringly. "I know. That's why I have to care." She looked away from him angrily and he expelled a heavy breath, returning his gaze to the journal. "Do you trust me?" 

                Glancing up harshly, she asked, "What?"

                "Do you trust me?" He repeated his question. 

                Gritting her teeth and wanting so much to hang onto her anger, she reluctantly answered him. "Yes, I trust you." 

                He picked himself up off the rock and smiled. "Good. Now lets get out of here."

***

                He looked up, cold flames in His eyes. "Do you have it?" 

                The man smirked and unwrapped the cloth in his hands, revealing a brilliant gold cross. "I do, my lord."

                The cold flames flickered into a blazing fury, His lips sliding into a malicious and triumphant grin. "You have done well, Mr. Donovan." He arose and walked over to the man, slowly surveying him. The tanned, blond and handsome young man seemed tense, uneasy in His presence. He stopped inches from him, lowering His fiery gaze to rest on the Ankh. "Although it took you a fair amount of time to retrieve it. I hope it was no trouble," He said smoothly, grinning evilly. 

                The man swallowed hard and spoke reluctantly. "I did run into a snag, but I took care of it. Just a colleague of mine and some girl—a spy." 

                Voldemort looked up sharply at this, examining the man carefully. "This spy, what did she look like?" He held his hand out over the Ankh, sensing its strong power. 

                Trent shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, watching anxiously as Voldemort held His hand inches above the amulet, waiting expectantly for his explanation. "She was short, unremarkable, not pretty." To his surprise and great terror, the grin on his Master's face melted like ice, replaced by a burning scowl, a low growl emitting from Him. Trent took a step back. 

                "And her name?" He snarled viciously, watching with fury as Trent cowered. "What was her name?"

                "J…Jude," he stammered, taking another step backwards. "Her name was Jude!"

                Voldemort dropped His hand away from the Ankh and leveled a cold glare at the man. "Tell me, Mr. Donovan. How did you dispose of this spy and her companion?" 

                Trent stiffened, swallowing his fears, soldiering onward with a brave account of what happened. "I tied them up and left them trapped. They will not escape."  
                "Perhaps," He said icily. "And perhaps not." His anger seemed to abate, replaced by a devilish curiosity. "Tell me, my friend. Why do recoil?" 

                "I…I don't recoil, my lord. M…my will is but to serve you," he pleaded pitifully, the Dark Lord continuing to advance on him. 

                Voldemort took the Ankh from his hands, the moment of contact causing Him to glance up at the man sharply. "Your loyalty has waned, my friend. You plot to deceive me." 

                Trent froze, shaking. "N…nonsense, m…my lord!"

                He nodded slowly, fingering the Ankh rapaciously. "It is true, dear Mr. Donovan. I sense it." He said bringing His face closer to that of the shaking man. "But I am one to reward a good deed. You have brought me the Ankh. And I wish to make my gratitude known. I will give you a chance."

                Trent's eyes flew wide at this pronouncement. It seemed as though the Dark Lord had read his thoughts. The Ankh's powers already strengthened Him. He knew about the medallion and his plan to steal it, his plot against Him. And now He would kill him for his disloyalty. 

                "I will give you a chance," He continued, "to right your error. You must return to the land of the Pharaohs. Retrieve the medallion of the Aten…and kill the girl. Do this and I shall spare you." 

                Trent released an agitated breath and felt the sweat dripping from his forehead. "Yes, my lord," he choked out in a hoarse whisper. 

***

                Jude was plunged into darkness. She could see nothing for the long moments it took Bill to duck through the small hole they'd managed to scratch through the rocks. Holding the torch high, Bill stepped out in front of her and clambered down the rocks into the great pantheon, the gods staring down benignly from their respective walls. She scrabbled down the pile of rocks, struggling to find steady purchase, her bare feet slipping on the rough, loose rocks. 

                He leapt down lightly and raised the torch, lighting the room. It seemed as if Trent was in too big of a rush to bother with curses that would stop their escape. The room was still empty and he could not feel the telltale tang of magic in the air. Raising the torch above his head and turning to Jude, he noticed her struggle over the last bit of rock and jump to the ground with effort. He wasn't sure how either one of them would make it back through the obstacles they'd just barely survived the first time. Shaking the thought from his head, he grabbed her hand and headed through the east door. 

                Back through the corridor, into the treasury. The gold and gems still glittered in the low light of the torch. Bill bent and picked up a coin, surveying it cautiously before pocketing it. 

                "What was that for?" Jude asked mildly. 

                "Proof," he said simply. "I'm coming back here. They'll have to let me once I show them this." 

                She nodded wearily, continuing through the midst of the piles of gold and silver, heading for the far door and the corridor beyond. She tensed as they stepped out of the right hand corridor they'd taken into the treasury. They were back in the great passage with the ravine where they'd just managed to beat back four disgusting walking dead. The scent of decay still hung thickly on the air, putrid and stifling. Jude felt Bill hesitate as well text to her. Grabbing his hand, she followed him to the edge of the ravine. It was a short way down to the ledge, but there was no such ledge on the other side, just an impossibly high wall. They had no rope, only a torch, and they could not jump it. Bill dropped her hand and began to climb down the short wall to the ledge. 

                "Stay there," he called to her. "I'll be right back." 

                She stood with the torch in her hand, holding it over the edge for him, trying to see what he was doing down there. Soon she saw his redhead pop back up over the side of the wall. He clambered up over the rock, his muscles straining to pull himself up. She grabbed his shirt and hauled him over. He had a rusty scimitar clenched in his teeth. Furrowing her brow, she gave him a disgusted look, hoping it wasn't one that had been used on one of those decaying bodies. Even so, it was still repulsive. 

                "What's that for?" she asked, her nose still wrinkled in distaste. 

                He held the sword up in his hand and smirked mischievously at her. Striding over to the corridor they'd just come from, Bill looked up at a column lining the wall from floor to ceiling, another one stretching away next to it. The thing was tall, she noted, and solid, made of thick granite. On its side, it would probably reach to the other side of the ravine. Suddenly, she smiled at him. 

                "Give me a hand up," he said, returning the blade to its perch between his teeth. He grabbed a notch in the carvings and she laced her fingers and bent for him to put his foot in her palms. The sole of his trainer ripped at the fresh wounds and she winced but she didn't let him go. Pulling himself up by his arms, he placed his foot in the recessed line separating the hieroglyphs. Soon he was high in the air, clinging precariously to the column, its capital just above his head. It was carved in the shape of a jackal's head, its mouth wide and snarling. Bill grabbed onto the teeth and hauled himself up into the fearsome creature's jaws. From there, he reached around and clamped onto the nose, lifting himself onto the thing's face, just in front of the heavily lined eyes. He crouched low between the carved column and the ceiling, taking the blade from his teeth. 

                "Stand back," he called back to her. She moved to stand against the wall on the opposite side of the other column and watched him nervously. He started hacking at the stone anchoring the column to the ceiling, which broke away in great flaking chunks. Soon he had shorn the great stone beast free of the roof, leaving it to stand wobbling on its own. He dropped the scimitar, which landed with a clink, embedding itself in the soft ground. Shakily, he climbed back down. 

                She came to stand next to him, dragging the scimitar free from the ground. Handing it back to him, she looked to him for her orders. "Push?" she asked, surveying the giant stone pillar. 

                "Yep," he answered, moving around behind the thing. She followed suit and placed her hands against the back of the column on the other side. Gritting her teeth, she shoved the massive stone. It creaked, grinding on its base, protesting but not moving much. Bill shoved it harder, his face contorted with the effort, arms straining. Jude turned her back to the column, pressing hard against it, her feet against the wall for leverage. She felt it slip from its base. Quickly, she jumped to her feet and stood back, Bill doing the same. Eyes to the ceiling they both watched as the mammoth column leaned slowly, then gaining more speed, it toppled over completely, sending an almighty shudder through the tomb with its impact. Rocks and bricks rained down on them, dust filling the air for the seconds following. Once the haze cleared, they saw that the column had indeed fallen across the ravine, however it crossed it at an angle. Not a straight shot, but better than nothing, Jude mused. 

                "C'mon," she said eagerly, tugging him behind her. He stared cautiously at the ceiling, paying her little attention. Large cracks snaked over the expanse of the roof. One more upset to the building like that and it would come down on them. Bill wanted to be out of that corridor as quickly as possible. 

                Hopping up on the wide column-bridge, he turned to pull Jude up and then faced the other side. The stone rolled minimally as he stepped out over the deep pit, just enough to throw him off balance if he wasn't careful. Jude was doing better than he was, being able to grip the granite with her bare feet. Behind him, she waited patiently as he balanced precariously, each step bringing him further over the yawning darkness of an unknown. 

                "Don't look down," she warned gently behind him. He immediately jerked his head up and noticed that they weren't that far from the other side—maybe five paces away. Tentatively he put one foot in front of the other and kept his eyes on the end of the column, Jude's hand reassuringly on his back. The broken face of the jackal—Anubis—looked up forlornly at the cracked and threatening ceiling. He fell to his knees on the beam, steadying its wobbling as he reached the end. He jumped down and held it in place for Jude. She covered the last paces quickly, making it look unnaturally easy, jumping down next to him. 

                Turning their backs to the ravine, they saw the broken beam and chunks of ceiling in front of them. It was about twenty or so paces up and they crossed it quickly and with little ceremony. Scrabbling over the blocks of stone and shards of wood, Jude turned abruptly to Bill. 

                "Do you think we can get the rope out?" she asked, shining the torch on the rope wound through the rubble. She tugged a length up out of the rocks and examined it hopefully. Bill stood with his scimitar in hand, jerking the rope free of the debris as much as it would give. The rope was still tied inextricably to the beam. Raising it above his head, Bill severed the rope and wound it around his arm, slinging it across his shoulder. 

                "Well, we have rope now," he said cheerily. 

                She remained crouching on the pile of rubble, staring out over the rune floor apprehensively. "Do we just go back the way we came?" she asked skeptically. 

                He shrugged. "Worth a shot," he consented, examining the walls and the floor judiciously. Seeing nothing to give him alarm, he stepped down onto the first blank patch. Jude heard the snap of something high in the air and looked up quickly. 

                "Bill!" she shouted frantically. "Jump!"

                He jerked his head up just in time to see a massive boulder hurtling toward him. Throwing himself sideways he felt the impact rattle his body on the ground, the stone sending shards of the rune floor flying in every direction. Staring with his mouth wide, eyes even wider, he saw the runes glinting malignantly. Scrabbling to his feet, he turned back and yanked Jude by the arm, dragging her off the rocky peak. They both ran like hell for the other corridor. 

                Behind her, Jude heard the sound that chilled her to the bone. The clacking of ancient, bare, skeletal feet on the floor, the evil hiss of gaping, fleshless mouths and she quickened her pace. The light bounced wildly in front of them as they fled madly down the passage with the columns and the pit lining the walls, the passage where their reluctant alliance had been forged. And a thought soon struck her. The succession of pits lay just ahead. There was no way they would have time to cross them before their necrotic pursuers caught up to them. 

                Bill turned every now and then to glance over his shoulder. In the faint light he couldn't make out the numbers. All he knew for sure was that there were more. The hissing grew louder in his ears as he reached the pits. Jude had already skidded to a halt, shining the beam desperately across the breaks in the path. They could jump to the first perch, but so could the little devils. Bill turned sharply to face the malign corpses. They had a better chance if they stood and fought here, there was more space to maneuver. Still he knew their chances were bleak either way. Jude held the torch fiercely in front of her, and he grasped the scimitar tightly. He didn't have his wand. 

                At the border where the torch's light waned and darkness began, Bill and Jude watched horrified as one twisted and shriveled corpse appeared after another, moving slowly closer on their brittle feet. The stench of death and decay grew unbearably stronger and still they stepped from the darkness. 

                "Oh God!" Jude whispered as fifteen shriveled, rotting bodies each clutching a scimitar encircled them, driving them back against the edge of the pit. She tore her eyes away from the hellish army, backing precariously closer to the precipice. "Bill!" she hissed, "What's the incantation that kills them?" 

                He furrowed his brow at her, clutching his scimitar in front of him defensively. Pressing his lips together, he hesitated. 

                "Why are you afraid of me, Bill?" she hissed angrily. "You have no choice but to trust me, too!"

                "Pereomortis," he whispered to her reluctantly. She nodded, shifting the torch to her right hand. The demons still advanced, their withered mouths hanging open, emitting a foul smelling hiss. 

                "Bill," Jude turned to him urgently, speaking quietly and tensely, "Kneel and throw your sword over there." She indicated that he should toss his only weapon away to his right. 

                "Why?" he asked incredulous, looking at her as if she was insane. 

                "Just do it!" she hissed fiercely. He obeyed her, throwing his scimitar away and ducking low to the ground, feeling unforgivably foolish. She held up her left hand, palm out, ignoring the pain that raced up her arm. Calmly, she stepped slowly up to the startled creatures. They halted their advance, glaring curiously at her. "Expelliarmus!" she shouted loudly, throwing herself on the ground as fifteen scimitars flew over her head. She jumped up quickly, glaring viciously at the bemused corpses. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to concentrate, blocking out the putrid stench, blocking out her worry over how many different ways this could be their downfall, blocking out the pain in her arm. 

                Taking a deep breath she raised her hand solemnly at the creatures and spoke forcefully. "Pereomortis!" She felt an enormous shockwave shake the tomb, she smelled the foul dust of the demons dissipating into oblivion and she felt a hand seize her roughly by the arm, tugging her backwards. 

                "Come on, Jude!" Bill yelled at her, throwing the rope from his shoulder over the beam above his head. "The ceiling! It's coming down!" 

                She felt dazed, seeing everything in a strange slow motion. Pieces of stone were falling all around her. Bill grabbed her fiercely around the waist and jumped the pit. She was surprised to find when they hit the ground on the other side that she was still clutching the torch in her hand. Bill threw the rope over the next beam and pulled her to her feet, swinging them over the second black expanse. The building was shaking more violently now and as Jude slammed into the earth, she looked up to see huge stones and chunks of brick coming away from the roof. 

                Without hesitation, Bill tossed the rope over the last beam and waved for her to come quickly. She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him. They swung out over the last pit. Jude felt a lurch and felt herself smack the ground hard. Coughing and looking back, she saw that the beam was pulling free of the wall, great pieces of mortar and stone falling away from the post. Bill's eyes were fixed on the beam as well as he clung precariously to the rope. Planting her feet, Jude reached out to him. He swung back and forth over the yawning hole in the ground, jerking wildly as the beam gave way. With one last effort, he reached out and grabbed her dirty and bloody hand. She gritted her teeth and dug her heels in, trying to keep herself from going over as well. A tremor rocked the tomb and in that instant the beam fell away. He plunged into the darkness, still gripping her hand tightly. She dropped the torch to the ground and held his wrist with both hands, her feet flying out from under her. She smacked the rock hard but didn't let go. 

                Clenching her teeth and straining, she just managed to hold him up, but the blood and sweat from their hands caused them to slip. She leaned back, yelling in frustration and pain as she struggled mightily to pull him up. He released one hand and clasped the rock. She tugged with both hands on his other arm and he fell half over the precipice, his legs still dangling. He hoisted himself up with difficulty as she collapsed back to the ground, panting. 

                As soon as he had his feet on the ground, he grabbed her under the arms and pulled her up. The ceiling crashed down all around them and from the light of the torch forgotten on the ground, large boulders were beginning to fill in the doorway. He shoved her ahead of him and yelled above the crashing of the rocks for her to run. She obeyed, running with all the strength she had left into the dark, hearing his steady footfalls behind her. In a few long moments, an eternity to Jude, they were back in the first room, empty and solemn, the columns shaking and fragments of wall paintings tearing away with the shudders of the collapsing roof. One corridor left. 

                Jude could see the narrow rectangle of light just ahead and she quickened her pace. As it grew in size, she could hear nothing but the great, shuddering impacts of the ceiling crashing to the ground, the tomb renting itself apart. The shaking snaked from the interior of the building behind her, racing after them until it was directly overhead. The columns twisted and shook as the ceiling of the foyer shuddered and began to break apart. She threw herself at the door, as the dust and bricks and stone enveloped the corridor, rolling to a halt several meters from the door and the debris pouring out of it. 

                Coughing, she looked around frantically. "Bill!" she yelled desperately. 

                She scrabbled forward on hands and knees to a figure lying, unmoving, just beyond the door and the crashing stone. Gently, she put a hand to his face, unsure what to do. Startling her, he coughed at the dust, struggling to sit up. He grabbed his chest, panting and staring ruefully at the destroyed tomb. Regretfully, he said, "Man, my boss is going to kill me!"

***

                He held the flap of the tent back for her as she ducked painfully inside. They both looked just as bad as they felt. She dropped wearily into a chair and examined her hands dully. Everything hurt and she didn't know where to start. The worst of it, she thought, was the exhaustion. She felt as if she could sleep for a month straight. But she knew that was just what she couldn't have. Rest. No rest was visible in the near future for her. She looked ruefully up at Bill, musing that he could not rest either, having made some hasty promise to help her. 

                "I'm going to go get a book from the workroom," Bill said, rubbing the back his neck and studying her with scrutiny. "I'll get some water and towels so you can clean up, too," he added. She nodded blandly and let him leave. 

                Glancing around the tent, she was amazed at how spacious and accommodating it was—for a tent. Magic, no doubt, she mused, getting to her feet and crossing the room. A bed stood invitingly at the opposite end and she walked over to it. The clean white sheets and squashy pillows were much more comfortable than the chair, she noted gratefully as she lied down, resting her cheek on a fluffy pillow. She didn't know how long Bill was going to be and didn't think it would hurt if she lied there for a moment, not moving, not thinking. 

                Bill stepped back through the flap of the tent, a couple of books tucked under his arm, a basin of clean water in the other and he stopped. Jude was asleep. He set the basin down carefully, tossing the towels and things into the chair. Cautiously, mindful not to make a sound, he moved over to the bedside, frowning. She was thoughtful enough to leave her dirty and bloodied feet hanging over the side, but her hands, one tucked under the white pillow, the other resting open by her fact were both scratched and scraped raw, bloodstained. Red smudged the sheets around them. He watched her sleep, feeling a curious ache in his chest. Her cheek was marked by a large, deep purple bruise—a bruise he'd given her, he remembered regretfully. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her like this. Several times he'd seen her passing in the halls of Hogwarts, making for her classes quickly, a black eye here, a bloody nose there. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her then, but now he guessed he just never knew her as well as he thought he did. She could take care of herself. 

                Still, the fierce protection she'd stirred in him as a girl he felt even now. He wanted to help her if he could. She shouldn't have to do this on her own as so many others expected of her. He hoped she would let him as he slowly brushed her hair away from her cheek, touching the bruise guiltily. She stirred under his touch and opened her eyes. 

                "I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said hastily, sitting up. "What did you find?" 

                Fetching one of the books quickly, he flipped to the place he'd marked with a pencil. "I think the Aten is in the temple at Luxor."  
                She nodded as he pointed out its location on a map in the book. "Looks smaller than the tomb," she said with a small smirk. "And lighter."

                "The only problem," he said as he stood from the bed, "is that the temple is an old find. People have studied it, plundered it, looted it for centuries. I know it's there, but it won't be easy to find." He stuck the pencil back in the book and tossed it on the chair, tugging his grimy shirt off over his head absently. "But we know what we're looking for. It can't be nearly as hard as the sodding Ankh." 

                She watched him blankly as he threw the shirt on the floor and turned his attention to the improvised bandage she'd wrapped around his cut shoulder. He winced as he tried to pull it off. Standing wearily to her feet, she moved to his side quietly, taking the cloth in her hands, untying it and then soaking a towel in the water, wiping the wound clean. It was a pretty bad cut, she noted darkly, wrapping it in a fresh bandage. She left her hand on his shoulder and he placed his over it gratefully. She looked down at her feet. 

                "You've already done so much for me, Bill," she said quietly, "And I know you would still help me but I can't help but feel I shouldn't ask anymore from you. I will go alone to get the Aten." 

                He shook his head, smiling. "No way, Jude. I'm going. It's final."

                "But it's dangerous," she said, feeling even more guilty. 

                He took her hand from his shoulder and held it in both of his. "I know." 

                Reluctantly, she looked into his eyes and saw that he was unwavering on this, he would go whether she wanted him to or not. "Thank you," she said finally. 

                There was an awkward silence and he dropped her hand, breaking their contact. "I dug up some things from Donna's tent. She's a bit taller than you are, but they'll have to do." Next to the towels she saw a clean t-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers with lots of pockets. He grabbed a clean shirt from the back of his chair and pulled it over his head, gathering his books quickly. "I'll let you alone. We'll head out straight away when you're done." With little more ceremony, he ducked out of the tent, leaving her there, dirty and tired. She had the ridiculous feeling of loneliness when he left. She shrugged it off and turned to the formidable task of cleaning up. 

Author's Note: Same disclaimer as before, folks. This is a completely bogus interpretation of history—none of these facts would win you money on Jeopardy! If you are interested in the sources I used for this chapter, they are Rosalie David's _Handbook of Life in Ancient Egypt, _and Karl-Theodor Zauzich's _Hieroglyphen Ohne Geheimnis (Hieroglyphs Without Mystery). _These sources will also be noted at the end of the story. 

Now for all of you who believe you were ripped off by my phobia of romance, have I got a treat for you! My sister, Tajuki, read this chapter and her only response was "There was a surprising presence of shirt there, Sara! Bill…shirt…off…get it?" Yep, she's a bit obsessed with my Bill, see…but that is why I can now offer you an alternate scene to the end of this chapter. It was written by Tajuki in a fit of frustrated romance, but I must say, is very tasteful and wonderfully deep—no smut! I hate romance and yet I thought this alternate scene was great! So check it out! (It's under Chapter 44/Alternate Scene on my Bio Page—damn fanfic.net won't let me put a url for you guys!). 

Thanks: **Emjay **(this early update was just for you! I hope you enjoyed it and thanks again for the review that absolutely put me on Cloud 9!), **Tajuki** (babe, you rock! And you know it—that's why I feel to thank you at the end of the chapter is redundant—I tell you every day how much you are appreciated! This fic wouldn't exist if it hadn't been for you) and of course, **Black Dragon** (I'm pleased you liked the last chapter! Thanks so much for your loyalty). 


	45. Buried Treasure

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. 

Chapter Forty-Five: Buried Treasure

_Indy: "We do not follow maps to buried treasure and X never, ever, marks the spot."_

Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford), 'Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,' Paramount, 1989 

                He was bent in concentration over a pile of books and parchments. Silently, she watched him work from her spot by the entrance to the tent that served as the camp's library and workroom. Running a finger over the text in front of him, Bill would look back and forth between his field journal and the reference book before sketching fluidly. Quietly, Jude stepped up behind him and peeked over his shoulder. He was sketching a map, carefully consulting the plan of the temple and the papyrus notes. Jude frowned, examining his meticulous motions. 

                "It's in there?" she said, furrowing her brow in confusion. 

                He jumped slightly and looked up at her curiously. "Don't sneak up on me, Jude," he chastised mildly, turning back to his work. 

                "Sorry," she grumbled. "The papyrus…it mentions the Aten…or whatever the hell it is?" 

                Bill nodded, still deep in concentration. "Yeah," he admitted, "I can't believe it. I only translated the first one." Looking up at her with a devilish smile, he added, "Trent only knew about the first one."

                "Really?" she asked, feeling a bit of the gravity of the situation fall away. If this were indeed true, then Trent might not know…

                Bill nodded again, flipping through his notes. "It confirms my suspicions. I didn't think there was much to this one—I mean, the Ankh and this Aten were relegated to myth years and years ago. This papyrus says that the Ankh exists. Well, I guess we can agree now that that is no longer myth. So, I decided to give this other one a look. I thought it was little more than a family history of sorts, but with a reexamination, there are definite hints hidden in here about the pharaoh's son and his dealings. The Temple of Luxor was the base of operations for his illegal monotheistic cult, hidden under the guise of a cult to Re. This is where his priests were making the Aten."

                Jude peered closely at the jumble of cryptic hieroglyphs and Bill's untidy handwriting snaking below that. "How can we be sure it's still there?" 

                He shrugged. "Because it hasn't been found yet." At a skeptical look from Jude, he attempted to clarify. "Supposedly after Amenhotep III's death, his son, still professing a belief in his religion, took over the throne and imposed his monotheism throughout the kingdom. Now, after his death, his successor completely erased his influence from history. Akhenaten was buried at Tel-el-Amarna, but even though his tomb was found, there was no body."

                At this Jude made a face. "What do you mean, 'no body'? There has to be one…I mean…who wants a dead guy. Besides museums anyway?"

                "After his death, the people were free to express their hatred for his religion. The cult supposedly disappeared—his priests murdered, his tomb robbed and vandalized. History has simply assumed that his body's disappearance had to do with this." Bill flipped through the pages of his journal quickly as he spoke, returning to his sketched map. "For years now, I've believed otherwise. And now this text proves I'm right." He smiled up at her satisfactorily and tapped his fingers on the completely translated papyrus. 

                Smirking skeptically, Jude narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay, smart guy, spill then." 

                "He was never buried in Tel-el-Amarna," Bill revealed smugly. "The cult never vanished—it went underground…literally." 

                "Underground?" she repeated, scrunching her nose. "Where underground? The temple?" 

                Bill nodded slowly, a sly smile spreading across his face. "Exactly. For centuries, everyone's just assumed that the cult vanished, but I believe that they took their founder and buried him in their temple…or below it."

                "Has anyone discovered the…underground temple?" Jude asked, still skeptical. It just wasn't possible for the Aten to be there if, as Bill had already said, the place had been excavated. 

                 He shook his head. "As far as I know, no one's ever found it. No map I've ever seen of the place shows anything other than a standard plan of an Egyptian temple. Ground floor only." Standing, he snapped the journal shut and tucked it into his pocket. Carefully, he took the notes he'd made in hand, frowning. "Might be best if I got rid of these, don't you think?" He stared forlornly at the papers in his hand. 

                Jude nodded. He ripped the translations into small bits anyway and threw them into the bin under the table. He flipped all of the other books on the desk closed, the reference book he'd consulted still perched open slightly by the pencil he'd left in the binding. He walked quickly and purposefully over to the other side of the tent and grabbed two coils of rope off of a chair. Stringing one coil over his shoulders, he tossed the other to her lightly. She caught it, her arms sinking under the weight. Still, she pretended that the heavy rope was as light as a feather and draped it over one shoulder. Weary and exhausted, she couldn't help but sag under the unwanted weight, but she was not about to complain—she'd already learned the value of such a little thing as a coil of rope. In these tombs and temples, mysterious and treacherous, she would no longer underestimate the difference one object could make—or the absence of that object, more accurately. Bill handed her an electric torch, pocketing one himself. Moving easily under his burden, accustomed to the weight, he strode over to a bureau. Opening a drawer, Bill removed an object and examined it carefully. In the bright morning light, Jude could see dull black metal in his hand. Lumbering laboriously under her burden, she moved to stand next to him and peered into the drawer curiously. Several guns lay deceptively innocuous before her. 

                She picked one up and pulled the safety, examining the weapon. It felt solid in her hand, smooth and cold. Rarely had she operated a tangible weapon, always having relied on her abstract, yet deadly ability. Bill eyed her apprehensively. With a ratcheting sound, she checked the clip and found that it was full. Sticking the pistol in her waistband, she paid little attention to the curious look Bill gave her. Did he honestly expect her to go back into some crazy Egyptian funhouse without a weapon? Of course, she always had magic but roofs caving in all around her seemed a bit of a steep price to pay to use it. "Ready then?" she asked casually. 

                Still frowning, Bill smacked a new clip into his pistol with a loud clack and stowed the weapon. "Yeah," he answered her uneasily and followed her out of the tent. The sun was already glaring just over the horizon. Heat shimmered over the desert floor, obscuring the edges like water on a window pain. The sand was already hot underfoot, Jude noted as she stepped lightly across it. The river stretched away to the east in a swath of green and blue cutting through the sand. They headed out in that direction, both tired but neither willing to admit it for one moment. 

                Soon the shimmering desert sand gave way to the lush green of the river valley. The streets of the small town that stretched lazily alongside the river were already bustling with activity. A melon vendor was setting up shop and a fishmonger at his side was laying out the morning's catch. Rich fields of palms and flax lined every spare inch of land. Cool patches of shade denied the sun access to small alcoves, creating a haven for women chatting and children playing in the streets. The river rushed by in front of them as they stood on the cool bank, looking over it to the far shore. The temple stood gleaming in the bright, warm July sun. 

                Jude looked around, frowning. "Are we going to Apparate across?" 

                Bill shook his head and scanned the shore. "No. It's illegal here. The Magical Emirate of Egypt outlawed it in 1936." He shielded his eyes with a hand, looking off to his left, smiling. "We go by boat." 

                "Boat?" Jude choked out hoarsely. 

                He turned to her with a sly grin. "What's the matter? You aren't afraid are you?" 

                She frowned incredulously and followed him as he picked a path to the water's edge. "'Course not!" she answered trying to sound confident. She eyed the sinister water with growing apprehension. 

                Bill stopped in front of a withered, tan old man with no teeth. Jude couldn't help but stare in astonishment. The toothless old man was apparently the proud owner of the most rickety boat Jude had ever seen. The hull was the drab gray of rotting wood and it wobbled precariously on the rushing current. With growing unease, she watched Bill converse in rapid Arabic with the grizzled old man. He tossed the ancient mariner a coin and the man smiled a crooked, toothless grin. Jude stared at Bill, pale and tense. 

                "You didn't just agree to what I think you did, did you?" she asked warningly. 

                Bill smiled and nodded. 

                She dropped her jaw. "I'm not getting in that thing. We might as well row ourselves over in a cardboard box!"

                He laughed at her. "It's the only boat that isn't on the river already," he said simply, pointing at the water. Dozens of fishing vessels and sailboats were afloat on the burgeoning current, bobbing up and down blithely unaware of the predicament they'd caused her. "We could always swim across," he said with an amused smirk. 

                At this alternative she paled. Clutching the rope on her shoulder tightly, she looked out at the water, her heart racing harder than it had before. "I can't swim," she admitted grudgingly. 

                Checking his laugher a bit, he looked back at the rickety boat. "It looks as if we have no other choice then." 

                Gritting her teeth and glaring harshly at him, she pushed him aside roughly and took the old man's proffered hand, stepping precariously into the wobbly boat. Quickly she dropped onto the wooden slatted bench at the stern, gripping both sides of the vessel tightly. Her eyes darted from one side to the other. Water surrounded her. The old man smiled and patted her on the knee, laughing and chattering something incomprehensible and grabbing up a worn and dull oar. Bill hopped into the boat, causing it to wobble more than need be. Jude clenched onto the sides even harder and closed her eyes. 

                Bill laughed, clapping the old man on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "He says he's had this boat since he was a boy and that it's come between him and crocodiles more than once. He says it's a good boat." 

                Jude opened her eyes quickly and looked around frantically. "Crocodiles?" she whimpered, shrinking away from the sides. 

                The old man and Bill were laughing again. "Relax, Jude," Bill reassured her. "There aren't that many this close to the Aswan." He scanned the horizon and found one of sufficient size to point out. "Ugly little buggers." 

                From the middle of the rushing river, Jude noted unwittingly that the waterway seemed bigger and faster than she'd previously thought. "I always imagined the Nile as being a slow and peaceful river. This is a lot faster than I thought it would be. And wider." 

                The old man continued to move the oar in a steady and strong rhythm, ignoring them as he aimed for the far shore, closing the distance with each surprisingly powerful stroke. Bill looked away from his examination of the temple and focused on her still worried, but ever more curious face. "It's flood season," he answered simply. Turning back to the temple, he became somber and thoughtful. "And that could pose a problem for us." 

                She frowned and swiveled carefully to follow his pensive stare. The temple stood, crumbling yet majestic, on the shore and they were drawing ever nearer. The river meandered at the spot they were crossing, bending away from them, cutting a steep and ancient cliff into the bank. The temple perched regally on this cliff, a few meters higher than the water. The cliff was not tall and Jude could not fathom what about the flooding of the river that could pose a problem to them—well, besides the ancient boat springing a leak and the swift current sweeping them all to Cairo before they could get to shore, that is if the crocodiles haven't gotten the bodies first. Jude mused darkly, scrutinizing the temple. 

                Creaking to a halt, the boat's rotting hull skidding softly on the slimy silt-shore, Jude jumped out quickly, followed by Bill who turned to wave to the old man. As quickly as he'd docked, the grizzled mariner pushed off with the oar and was struggling once again with the current to return to the other shore. Jude did not watch him go. Instead she turned her attention to the temple above them and sighed. There was a path but it was steep and narrow. She didn't relish the thought of climbing it. 

                Bill stood next to her on the shore and followed her stare up the path. She was bent under the weight of the rope, her shoulders sagging with the burden. The weariness was visible on her face, so strong it seemed to make him exhausted just looking at her. "Do you want me to carry that rope for you?" he asked reluctantly, knowing she would say no. Still, he hoped she would concede. 

                She didn't. Shoving the rope up her shoulder, she pressed her lips together, giving a resolute negative. Jude resented her own weakness, but she resented other people's sympathy even more. Forcing one foot in front of the other, she drove herself up the path with a bit of effort. The rocks slipped on the moist ground under her feet and she found the going harder than it looked before. As she reached the top, she felt her lungs straining and her head spinning with fatigue. 

                Wanting nothing more than to fall to the ground and never move again, Jude forced herself up the last bit to the top of the small cliff. From here the temple seemed more ominous. Its white walls reflected the morning sun harshly, and the stone seemed more crumbled and fragile. The style of the building reminded her somewhat of a Greek temple—open and colonnaded with steps leading up to the front, where it continued further into a more closed, sheltered part of the temple. The roof here was completely gone but huge scaffolds had been erected to replace it. Jude squinted in the light, trying to place her finger on why this seemed odd. Was it common practice to restore ancient ruins? 

                The whole building was cordoned off by a wooden fence, keeping visitors an appropriate distance from the ruins. Jude looked to Bill, hesitating a bit before following his lead, hopping the fence and acting as if they had official business at the site. It worked, Jude marveled—the ten or so tourists snapped photos and took no notice of the two curious people covered in gear and heading strait into the ruins. Inside, Jude could now see that the temple was in fact undergoing a restoration, even though it was in the very early stages. The open, colonnaded area did open into a more sheltered area sans roof and then progressed further into the inner area of the temple—the house of the god. This area was closed off and quite a bit darker than the other parts of the temple. In this sanctum, the roof had actually been restored. The glare of the sun had been shut out by bright, gleaming new marble—a strong contrast to the ancient and crumbling stone. In the roof, a small rectangle was left in the stone, allowing a modest amount of light in. 

                Taking his journal from his pocket, Bill paused to flip through a few pages. He looked up and saw Jude staring curiously at the ceiling, at the rectangle opening. "It would have let the light in to shine on the cult statue," he explained. "It would have stood about there." Pointing to a spot directly under the opening, she walked over to stand in the spot and looked up. The roof was high—thirty feet at least. 

                Bill was looking around his feet, at the floor, and then back to his journal. Jude watched him cautiously for a moment before asking, "And where's the cult statue now?" 

                "Dunno," he said distractedly. "The temple was converted into a church with the rise of Christianity under the Roman Empire. They probably destroyed it." 

                She turned her attention back to the ceiling. "Not much of a church, huh?" she said absently, changing the heavy rope to the other shoulder. "No saints buried here or anything. This place is completely empty." 

                Bill snapped his journal shut and spun on his heels to face Jude. "Jude, where would a saint be buried in a church?" he asked her abruptly, staring intently at her. 

                Frowning, she shrugged. "Place of honor, as close to the altar as possible." 

                "And where would the altar be, say, in a converted temple?" Bill asked cryptically, walking briskly to stand next to her under the rectangle of light. 

                Jude shook her head. "I'm not following you. Are you saying there was a saint buried here?"

                He nodded slowly. "I don't remember the name—some hermit—but almost every converted temple had at least one to sort of legitimize it. Where would the altar have been?" he asked with more enthusiasm. It was obvious that archaeologists had missed this vital bit of the temple's history in the past when they excavated the thing. No one ever thought that there might have been a crypt of some sort." 

                Jude nodded, finally following his argument. It sounded like a long shot, but Bill had already proved his skill with long shots. She pointed to the ground. "It would have been here. This is as good as an apse, I guess. The altar would have been here." 

                Bill examined the ground thoroughly, scrubbing the toe of his shoe over the smooth stone. The surface was almost flawless, almost new as if it had been recovered in some time past. He dropped the rope in a heavy heap by his side and bent to examine it with his hands. Jude did the same, looking over the surface for any breaks in the stone. Nothing—the surface was flawless. She slumped back on her knees. "When do you suppose the floor was replaced?" Jude asked as Bill continued to run his hand over the stone carefully. 

                He shook his head. "It's newer than the rest of the stone in the building, save the roof, but it's still pretty old. Can't tell for sure, but I'd say…fifth century?" 

                Jude frowned. She didn't know that much about the Eastern areas of the Roman Empire during the Medieval period, but according to her knowledge of Western saintly tradition, if was a form of mortification—an abeyance to the vow of humiliation—to be buried under the floor, to have people walk over you in the holy sanctum of the cathedral. Of course parishioners and pilgrims alike would be aware of the saint buried there, but there would be no markings. Just like this place if indeed there actually was a saint under this floor. 

                "It could have been covered over after the saint had been buried, couldn't it have?" Jude asked, resuming her search of the floor. 

                Bill nodded before stopping suddenly, a smile creeping across his lips. He bent low and blew the dust out of a small, hairline split in the smooth stone. There was a perimeter about two feet by six. The perfect size for a burial plot. Bill reached for his torch and gripped it tightly in his hand. 

                "Why don't you just use magic? It would be easier, wouldn't it?" Jude looked around cautiously. "Besides, wouldn't the people who are restoring this building mind if you broke up the floor?" 

                Bill brought the torch down hard on the solid stone, breaking away a chip at the corner of the concealed trapdoor. "It's not them I'm worried about. A Japanese archaeologist team is investing in this building—you know, restoring it for tourist profit. But it's the French I'm worried about." He smashed the torch against the floor again with a loud bang. This time a large block broke away, revealing a dark, cavernous space below. 

                "The French?" Jude asked. 

                "Yeah," Bill said, not abating in his efforts. "There is a French team of wizards here doing who knows what. All I know is that they have some pretty strong wards up here. May have already detected something, maybe not. But let's get this done quick in any case, huh?" he answered, looking pointedly at her. She grabbed her torch and followed suit, chipping away a corner on her side. She could fit her hand under the stone easily and Bill could lever his half up with both hands. They strained and soon enough the thick slab of stone was pried off of the floor, revealing a pit deep enough for them both to stand in. Bill dropped down into the grave easily, his head just barely sticking up above the surface. Jude peered in and frowned. Bill met her eyes and mimicked her expression. 

                "It's empty," Jude said dejectedly. "What does this mean?" She grabbed his coil of rope and tossed it down to him. 

                "Well," Bill sighed in frustration. "It means that someone else has been here or that Mr. Saint wasn't really here to begin with."

                Jude frowned, looking down into the pit. "Well then how do you justify the grave being here? Someone had to have been buried here for someone to take the time to build the grave." 

                Nodding, Bill examined the walls thoroughly. "If someone did remove the guy from his final resting place, they didn't touch anything else. These walls look pretty solid." He waved a hand to her, beckoning her to join him in the empty grave. She took his hand and jumped lightly down, but as she impacted the floor, she felt it give. Her eyes flew wide and she threw out her hands to steady herself against the walls, distributing her weight over a larger area. 

                At the complete look of shock and terror on Jude's face, Bill burst into fits of laughter. "First you break the beam and now the floor!" he teased. "I guess looks can be deceiving." 

                Jude pressed her lips together and smacked him on the chest with the back of her hand. "I did not break that beam!" she retorted acidly. "But did you feel that? The floor's not solid—there's something under there." 

                Bill nodded, still laughing. He tugged her away from the spot and tested it with his toe, putting more and more pressure on the area. It crumbled a little more every time he added more weight. "Here," he said finally, giving Jude his hand. She grabbed his elbow and he wrapped his fingers around her arm. Securing herself against the far wall, she nodded to him to give it all his weight. Tentatively, he placed his feet on the cracking floor of the grave and after a few snaps, it settled again. He looked up at Jude with a cunning smile. She was shaking her head adamantly but he ignored her. Gripping her arm firmly, he jumped once. The ground immediately crumbled away under the impact and it took all of her strength to keep Bill from falling through. She gritted her teeth, clinging to Bill's hand with both of hers. 

                "Can you see anything?" she asked, the strain making her voice sharp and tense. 

                "Yeah," he said, sounding far away to Jude's ears. "Let go!"

                She let go and she heard him land with an oomph. Taking a small, tentative step forward, gingerly giving the fragile floor some of her weight, she bent over the hole and looked down. It was dark, but she could see the faint beam of the torch snaking around in the blackness. 

                "Come on, Jude," Bill said, sounding even more distant than he had before. "It's not that far down." 

                It was always harder than it seemed though. She placed more of her weight on the crumbling rock, stepping to the edge, about to jump. But the floor had ideas of its own and disintegrated under her feet. She collided with the ground hard, rocks raining down all around her. It was dark save for the small amount of light that crept through the hole in the floor. Painfully, she picked herself up from the ground and dusted herself off, reaching for her torch. She flipped on the small beam of light and shone it around the room. Bill wasn't there but she wasn't entirely alone, either, she noticed. This was a crypt—loculi lined the walls and old, dry bones wrapped in dingy and tattered shrouds lay in them. The air smelled of musty and distilled decay. She remained in the middle of the room and shone her beam all around her. Rounded arches held up the ceiling—the floor of the grave that had fallen away just moments before. They were Romanesque and richly carved, but she lingered little on the detail. She wanted to find Bill. 

                She turned to look behind her. Dark stretched away in that direction as it did in front of her. She was about to take a step toward that corridor when something grabbed her by the arm, she jumped and swung her torch forcefully, feeling it connect squarely with something solid. 

                "Bugger, Jude!" Bill was rubbing his chin and glaring at her. 

                She blinked and relaxed, noting with satisfaction that she'd gotten him good right across the jaw. "Well, don't sneak up on me! Where the hell have you been?" 

                Still glaring, he motioned for her to follow him. He stopped in front of a column-lined wall—what appeared to be a false doorway to Jude. "It's a wall, Bill. Have you checked that corridor going off in that direction?" 

                He glared at her. "Of course I have," he said a bit contemptuously. "It's just more bodies and then another wall. But look at this!" He bent and shined his light on the floor. A pile of fine sand was collected around the base of the wall. She picked up a pinch and rubbed it between her fingers. 

                "Sand, really fine sand," she said skeptically. "Where would this have come from?" She looked around now and noticed that the whole room was covered in the soft, salty-fine stuff. 

                "The river," Bill answered cleverly. "This room has been flooded some time in the past." 

                Jude frowned and bent closer to the wall. Curiously, she held her palm flat just inches from the stones. "Do you feel that?" she asked.

                He nodded, smiling. "Air circulation. This wall isn't solid either. There's something behind it." 

                "Or nothing," she said dejectedly. "Look, Bill. This place was obviously found in the late Roman period. If these blokes got down here and built a ruddy crypt, what makes you think that Mr. Mummy Man and his amulet thingy are still here? It could be long-gone for all we know." 

                Bill scowled at her. "Are you saying it's not worth going after?" 

                She looked away and heaved a heavy sigh. "No. I'm just saying that it's a slim chance." 

                "It's the only chance we've got," he said, his frustration dissipating. He placed a hand on the wall and looked at her significantly. "Hey, you see what I've done with slim chances. I asked if I could see you again back at the school. You shot me down, but you see? Here we are, in a crypt together. How's that for slim chances?" 

                Jude smiled, finding it hard to fight a laugh. He had a point, however ironic or far-fetched. "Well, when you put it that way…shall we?" She put her hands to the wall and they both pushed as hard as they could. The large stone gave way and pounded the floor behind the wall as it fell away. Holding her torch out in front of her, Jude slipped through the space first, stepping down on the stone they'd dislodged and then onto the silt-covered ground. This corridor was much rougher and had none of the Roman touches the other chamber had. Antiquated stones formed the crude walls of the narrow space, which seemed to stretch away forever into the black before them. Jude put a hand to the wall and felt the slime and muck of years and years of submergence under the Nile's floodwaters. She let her hand trail the crusted lichens that covered the stones and walked further on into the dark, hearing the reassuring sounds of Bill's footsteps behind her. As she walked, however, she felt the slight alteration under her fingers and halted abruptly. Frowning, she put her light to the wall and scratched at the rough plant life that clung to the wall. Peering closely she made out a very curious inscription. 

                "Graffiti," Bill announced, looking carefully at the Roman letters. "I bet it's all over this corridor. The workers leaving their marks." 

                "It says," Jude began, rubbing more muck from the stone, "VIVIIX. What's VIVIIX mean?" 

                Bill shook his head. "VIVO means 'live', but I don't know what VIVIIX would mean…it's not a conjugation of any verb I've ever learned in Latin." 

                Jude shook her head. "No. I don't recognize it either." She shrugged and decided to move on. As Bill had pointed out, the corridor was covered in Latin inscriptions, graffiti of the fifth century. Things such as "Marcus the mason carved the west capital," or "God grant the Meridians increase." Still, for some reason the word VIVIIX continued to repeat in her mind. 

                The corridor seemed to wind in on itself, but it never felt as if it was coming to an end. And she had the oddest sensation that they were walking slightly downhill. Just as soon as she began to ponder this, the corridor stopped. Beyond them five passages presented themselves. Jude sighed and slumped under the weight of the heavy rope, staring dejectedly ahead of her. 

                "What now?" she asked hopelessly. 

                Bill began flipping through his journal, shaking his head. "I don't know." 

                "I can't even tell which way we came in. I guess east and west as a guide is pretty much useless," Jude mused darkly, moving to inspect the doors. They all looked the same to her. "Any luck?" she asked, turning to Bill. He slammed the book shut and shook his head. 

                "Can you detect any curses on these doors?" Jude asked apprehensively. To her relief he shook his head. "Alright," she offered. "I say we try the first one, and if that comes to nothing, we come back and try another." 

                Bill looked at her incredulously. "You know, that could take all day…hell that could take all year!" 

                "A slim chance, right?" she said with a smirk. He smiled. "Come one." She led the way down the first dark corridor, keeping a steady pace and her beam trained vigilantly in front of her. Bill held his torch in one hand and a wand in the other, ready for whatever lay ahead of them. Suddenly, he felt Jude tense and stop suddenly in front of him. She gasped and turned abruptly, racing past him. "I can't believe it. I'm such an idiot!" she exclaimed excitedly as she headed back the way she'd just come. "They're Roman numerals! VIVIIX! Come on, Bill!" 

                He gave one furtive glance down the corridor before turning back to follow her. When he emerged from the tunnel, she was standing in front of the doors with a satisfied and hopeful look of joy on her face. "There are five doors! And Latin is read left to right! One, two, three, four, five!" she said happily. "That's our door!"

                Bill was astonished but had little time to examine her logic. Jude wasted no time in marching off down the fifth corridor. He jogged to catch up with her. The corridor was just as winding as the first one and just as long. The walls were filthy and covered with the mossy plant life that attested to his flood theory. The silt crunched under his feet, creating the only sound in the corridor besides their heavy breathing. Jude slowed her pace and to her satisfaction the corridor opened onto another row of doors. "You know, I'm beginning to think that the poor sap who wrote the numerals did the trial and error thing to come up with the right numbers." 

                "Better him than us," Bill retorted. "So which number now?" 

                "We've already used 'V', so 'I' or 'IV', one or four." Jude looked over the doors. There were only four now. 

                Bill looked at Jude and suggested four. She nodded and they headed off in that direction. In the third dark corridor they'd come through, Jude began to feel the distance that they'd already come across. It seemed odd to her that in such a small area, so many winding tunnels could be snaking under the ground—for surely they hadn't gone too far from the water's edge because there still remained some signs of flood. Her legs were aching now and her back was killing her. Breathing was becoming more difficult in the closer quarters and after the exhausting distance. She stopped and turned to Bill. 

                "I'm tired," she admitted reluctantly. "Can you carry this rope?" She stared at the floor ahead of her and frowned with dejection, feeling an overwhelming sense of self-loathing for having admitted such a thing. 

                "Of course I can," he said with a smile and took the rope from her shoulders. She was immensely relieved to have the weight off of her and she moved her neck from side to side, feeling the tense stiffness of having carried the blasted thing for miles without having needed it once. 

                "Thanks," she muttered trying to sound as grateful as she felt but her wounded pride would not allow it. They continued the long trek to the end of the corridor. It came with another set of mysterious doors. This time there were only two. 

                "Well," she sighed, exhausted, "One or two?" 

                "Two," Bill answered. "Might as well stick with the extreme rights." 

                This corridor was blessedly shorter, but at the end, they were greeted with something wholly unexpected. Instead of ten doors to choose from, the last remaining numeral being 'X', there were grander doors than the last ones, and three in number. On the lentil above the first door, there were the markings of the seated and crowned man, with the sun's disk to his right. The name of the god, Jude recognized. The next door was decorated with a curious symbol. Two outstretched arms raised to the heavens adorned this door. Next to that one, on the last door, was what looked like a bug to Jude. 

                "That's the symbol of the god, the Aten," Bill pointed out to Jude. "That," he said, nodding toward the middle door, "Is the symbol of the ka—the eternal soul. And that is a scarab." 

                Jude shuddered involuntarily. "We're not going in that door," she said, turning away from the passage on her right. "I hate bugs—snakes are fine—but bugs…" 

                "So," Bill said, studying the last two doors. "The name of the god or the eternal soul?"

                "Does 'ten' coincide with either of those?" Jude asked skeptically. 

                Bill shook his head. "Ten doesn't fit in anywhere. What did the bloke mean, 'X', it doesn't make much sense." 

                Furrowing her brow, Jude forced herself to concentrate. It was here, the answer, she knew it. The ka. That was a curious symbol. Jude had never seen it before. From her vantage point, it almost didn't look like hands at all, but a 'Chi', the Greek letter. 'Chi' is 'X', she thought. The man wasn't speaking in Roman terms—he didn't mean ten, but literally 'X', Chi, the letter. "It's the middle one," Jude said triumphantly. "The ka, well it looks almost like an 'X', like the letter. Do you suppose what we're looking for is in there?" 

                Bill was nodding judiciously. "Yeah," he said, smiling. "I think you might have something. The eternal soul—that's where he would be buried." 

                Jude turned to him abruptly. "Where who is buried? Are you telling me we're looking for the body…the mummy?" 

                "Yep," Bill said with smug satisfaction. "This medallion was his life's work. Of course he would have been buried with it." 

                Groaning, Jude followed Bill into the dark room. The torchlight cast faint and ghostly shadows around the expansive room, richly decorated with wall paintings. The room was filled with columns—and nothing else. An opening in the middle of the room was surrounded by a row of finer, slimmer columns and the floor fell away, revealing a staircase leading into the darkened depths. Jude could smell the musty odor of stagnant water and age. 

                Stepping closer to the edge, she peered down into the cistern, shining her light into the gloom. The stairs crumbled away just a few feet down, dropping steeply to the water below. This room was still flooded, she could see and she felt her hopes of an easy capture of this wretched medallion wither away. Shining her light around, however, she saw something to cheer her slightly. A coffin rested on a sort of platform in the middle of the flooded room, a good two feet above the water line. The water couldn't be more than a meter or so deep. Bill was looking into the cistern as well and was hatching a plan to get down there. Before Jude looked up, he'd already uncoiled the rope and strung it around the narrow, elegant column by his side. He dropped the rope over the edge and watched as the end splashed into the water below. Taking the other rope, he tied it securely around the slim column and drug the length of the rope across the room, wrapping it firmly around a more substantial column and tying it off expertly. 

                "That should hold," he said, coming back to stand at her side and tugging at the rope. "Well, it should hold me at least. Ow!" he finished as she punched him roughly in the arm. Even though he'd pretended she'd hurt him, it hadn't in the slightest and that bothered him. When he'd first come across her in the tomb, she gave him one sound beating, but now her weariness was blatantly apparent. It would be a miracle if she could make it down that rope. 

                "I'll go alone," he offered, knowing as soon as he'd said it that she would refuse to stay behind. "I need you to stay behind and watch the ropes." 

                Jude frowned. "Oh no you don't. I'm coming too." 

                Resignedly, he grabbed the rope and lowered himself down. The cistern was deeper than he'd initially thought. He could feel his arms burning under the strain. When he was a meter or so above the water, he let go of the rope and splashed loudly onto the floor, sinking up to his waist. "Come on, Jude," he shouted to her from the bottom. It was a long way down, she realized. 

                It had been an option before that she could change into a bird, but as she assessed her condition, she knew it was impossible. All magic felt beyond her, as she needed every ounce of energy just to keep going. And she wouldn't be able to make it on sheer strength, but pride is just as powerful, if not more so. She had already appeared weak in front of him once. It was not something she wanted to repeat, so she grabbed the rope and lowered herself down. 

                Just above the water, she let go, sinking in up to her chest. The water had a queer, slimy feel to it that brought to mind all of the sludge and…other pollutants that were in this water. That coffin too had once been under water and the thought made her skin crawl. She wondered if Bill was having the same thoughts as he sloshed across the room at her side. From the look on his face it was entirely possible. They reached the platform hastily and scrambled up onto the steps. They were both soaked through and dripping with sludge. Jude turned to face the gilded coffin, faded and worn with the floodwaters. She didn't want to know what was inside. 

                She crossed her arms over her chest and glared from the coffin to Bill and back again. He was eyeing the object just as warily. Glancing over at him with agitation, Jude gestured to the sarcophagus and said, "Well?" 

                Bill looked from the gilded and aged sarcophagus to Jude and back again with growing apprehension. "Right," he answered her, wiping his palms nervously on his jeans and biting his lip. "D'you suppose it'll…I don't know…move or something when I open it?" 

                Eyes wide, Jude looked horrified. "How should I know? You're the expert!" She stepped back a step, not taking her eyes off of the sarcophagus. "It won't move, right? You were just trying to scare me, right?" She swallowed hard. 

                "Yeah," he reassured her half-heartedly, placing his hands on the side of the coffin. "Step back," he warned her and with a shove, the stone covering shifted, the sound of stone scraping stone filling the watery chamber. With a little more effort, Bill gave it one last shove and the cover slammed dully into the stone of the platform before splashing into the oily and murky water. The scent of decayed flesh filled the room instantly, suffocating and stifling. Jude pulled the neck of her t-shirt over her nose and peered over the edge of the coffin, rising on her toes, trying to stay as far away from the thing as possible and still get a good view. Inside was a beautifully crafted mummy case, a humanoid shape fashioned out of gold, onyx and alabaster, adorned with the finest gems. The face depicted was a slight aberration from the classical style of Egyptian art—this man was not portrayed in the linear and geometrical style characteristic of the wall paintings she'd seen previously. This man was more feminine looking, if she had to put a label to it. Different in art as in religion, this man's reign was nothing if not a complete rebellion to all one conjured to mind when they thought of the powerful pharaohs that once ruled this land. 

                As she stared at the gilded covering of the royal body, Bill gingerly put his hands into the coffin, the look on his face clearly denoting that he did not relish the task. He closed his eyes and pried the top of the casing off. It was considerably lighter than the covering of the sarcophagus and it came off easy, falling to the bottom of the coffin, leaning against the wall. Hideously discolored wrappings filled the mummy case, etching out a vaguely human form. The stench was even worse, causing Jude's eyes to water as she looked over Bill's shoulder at the severely decomposed body. The linen clung to the rotting flesh, every now and then parting slightly enough to expose some blackened and oozing remains. Bill backed away from the mummy a step and studied the thing with morbid curiosity. 

                "It's still…" he said, his face showing disgust, "juicy." Jude stepped up to his side, still holding her shirt over her nose and eyed the mummy cautiously. 

                "It's not supposed to be like that?" she asked, still fighting revulsion. 

                Bill shook his head fervently. "No. Flood water got to this one. Usually they're dry…this one's just gross." He resumed brushing his palms on his jeans obsessively. "Okay, it's in there somewhere…" he announced with a weak smile, "so it shouldn't take you that long to get it." He snatched the torch from her hand and nodded for her to dig in. She glared at him with unadulterated shock and horror. 

                "Me?" she choked. "I'm not sticking my hands in there! You're the expert, Bill. If anyone is going to dig around in a decomposing body, it's you!" Backing up a few steps, she leveled a vicious glare at him. He did not quail. Instead he took out his wand and pointed it at the mummy. 

                "I can't," he said mildly, noting her growing horror with a mixture of amusement and pity. "I have to be ready if anything happens. I'm sorry, Jude. But it's going to have to be you." He smiled a bit smugly, adding, "unless you have enough energy left to defend me while I get it." Satisfied that she only frowned and deepened her murderous glare, he shook his head as she strode over to the side of the coffin. "Don't worry," he reassured her as she looked from the gooey mummy to his face with terror. "If it grabs you, I'll blast it back to hell, alright?" 

                This, however, did little to give her confidence. She clasped both her hands together and held them under her chin, staring with a mixture of resignation and revulsion at the mummy, as if trying to convince herself to do it. Taking a series of deep breaths, she shook her head solemnly and closed her eyes. "I hate you so much right now, Bill Weasley," she said through clenched teeth, reaching forward with one trembling hand. 

                Fighting hard not to retch, she winced as her fingers brushed the cold slime covering the rags that shrouded the body. Flinching, she withdrew her hand immediately, shaking from head to foot. Next to her she could hear Bill's nervous and tense breathing. Squeezing her eyes shut tighter, she took a deep breath and held it, forcing her fingers to brush back the blackened, stinking shroud. The seconds felt like eternity and still she felt nothing other than slimed, fragile tissue disintegrating under her touch and brittle, sludge-covered bones. She tried to open her eyes, to aid her in her search, but she knew the moment she looked it would be the end of any composure she had left. Higher up on the chest, between the ragged and bare ribs, her hand finally hit something that was neither flesh nor bone, but metal. Gritting her teeth, she clamped her hand around it and drug it out of the remains of the chest cavity. With a grimace on her face and her eyes still squeezed shut, she dropped the metal object and promptly retched over the side of the platform. 

                Overcome by nervous, dry sobs, she fell to her hands and knees, leaning over the water, her shoulders heaving with her ragged breaths. "That…was the most…vile…and wretched…and disgusting…thing…I've ever done!" she gasped between shuddering gulps of air. Peeling her eyes open, she glanced down at her hands and immediately plunged them into the slimy water, scrubbing them hard until they were raw. "And I've done some pretty vile and wretched and disgusting things in my time!" 

                Bill picked up the dropped object, wiping the grime off on his shirt. His expression went from tense observation and concentration to one of relieved excitement. In his hand he held a gold medallion, about the size of his palm, with one milky clear crystal in the center, hieroglyphs snaking its circumference. It was the Aten. Smiling he sat on the platform next to Jude, staring at the amulet. Holding his hand open, he angled it so the light caught it just right and placed it in Jude's hand. "That was by far the coolest thing I have ever seen a girl do," he congratulated her admiringly as she stared blankly at the amulet in her hand, still shaking. "Of course," he continued thoughtfully, "you could have just summoned the thing." 

                Her eyes flew wide open and she turned a fiery glare on Bill. With one well-placed kick, he tumbled off the platform and into the grimy, oily water. Spluttering, he came up laughing. Splashing the foul water at her, he chided, "Come on, it could have been worse, you know." Shaking his head, he started to trudge back to the tumbled down stairs, to the rope hanging from the opening in the ceiling. "Well, now that that's over, let's get out of here," he called back to her. 

                Staring forlornly at the water, she sighed wearily, clasping the amulet tightly in her hand. Not relishing stepping back in the vile water, she favored that option over remaining there alone with the mummy she'd just gotten to know personally. With a disgusted frown, she trudged over to Bill and stared up at the rope. Without gravity's help, the distance seemed impossible. Still, she gripped the rope tightly and pulled herself up. One hand in front of the other, she didn't look up until she felt her hand brush the stone of the broken stairs and the floor above. She made it, utterly to her own surprise. Pulling herself up, she collapsed on the floor just beyond the opening and didn't bother to give Bill a hand up. After a few minutes' rest, Bill tugged her to her feet and pointed her to the door, muttering something about getting back before dusk. 

                 Following him obediently down the corridors they'd traversed before, now in reverse order, she stared at the amulet, allowing him to pull her along by the hand. Every step now was painful, but she ignored it, feeling a blissful indifference. It would have suited her fine if they'd just stopped and never continued on again, her weariness was so acute, nor did she care that they continued to plunge on into the cavernous bowls of the cliff atop which sat the temple. Just as long as she didn't have to think about it any more, she didn't care. Bemusedly, she turned the amulet around and around, trying to make out the curious symbols but with little luck. Wearily, she asked Bill what they meant. 

                "Neb wen neter Re," he replied. "The lord is not the god Re. A rough translation, but essentially, it nullifies what the Ankh had carved into it. 'Neb neter Re.' Literally, 'this lord is the god Re.'" 

                "Oh," she said simply, running her thumb over the symbols on the amulet, a palpable energy coming off of them. "Well," she said, finally pushing the amulet into the hand that clasped hers, she consented, "since you know what to do with it, you take it. It would be useless in my possession." 

                He stopped and stared at her curiously before pocketing the thing, taking up her hand again and trudging up the path to the end of the last corridor. Already the air seemed less stifling, more fresh, and the claustrophobic sense that had caused a tense uneasiness for the past several hours was falling away like a thick cloak on a warm day. Another two steps and they were once again in the Romanesque crypt, just below the floor of the temple. Giving her a hand up, Jude hoisted herself through the floor of the abandoned saint's grave and turned to grab Bill's hand, spreading her weight over the remaining floor, hoping not to have it crumble from beneath her. Soon, his head poked above the floor and then he was beside her, standing in the grave. With one last effort, Jude pulled herself up onto the cold temple floor, squinting in the harsh, red light of the late afternoon. The light gilded everything it touched with a warm gold and fiery rose, setting the creamy colored marble afire with smoldering hues. Bill climbed up out of the grave and looked regretfully back at the destroyed floor. There was nothing he could do about it so he shrugged and left the marble crumbled where it was for the teams working on the area to find. Feeling the weight of the amulet reassuringly in his pocket, he left the underground caverns with little regret. Jude seemed just as relieved to leave the day's events behind her, now that her task had been accomplished. They strode toward the entrance of the temple with exhausted steps. 

                The crack of stone behind her caused Jude to jump and look up sharply. A small fragment of a pillar just beyond her head chipped and fell away, the effect of a ricochet curse. She hadn't even heard the words of the curse spoken but she knew who she would see before she even looked up. It was Trent. Quickly she ducked behind the column and saw Bill dive behind the opposite column. Taking stock of the situation, Jude realized they hadn't even made it to the open colonnaded area of the temple—they remained just outside the inner temple, with its one row of columns and partially restored roof. A large, metal scaffolding rose to the heights of the ceiling just beyond the column Bill hid behind. He grabbed for his gun, holding his wand in the other hand, back pressed against the column. Jude suddenly remembered her own weapon and reached to her waistband. With relief she found it was still there. She withdrew it and released the safety. 

                "Tisk, tisk, Bill," Trent said with lazy amusement, "if I hadn't warned you over and over not to leave pencils in books. All I had to do was flip to the page where you left it last and read up a bit. You made this entirely too easy for me." He feigned disappointment. Bill remembered leaving the book marked and swore softly to himself, gripping the gun harder. The clack of expensive shoes on the floor of the temple sounded in succession, coming closer. "Now, let us skip the formality, shall we?" His voice was nearer, his lazy drawl more arrogant than ever. "You know what I came for, so let's not play games." 

                Jude waved for Bill's attention and motioned for him to follow her lead. She raised three fingers and slowly lowered them in succession, jumping out on the count of three. Bill did the same. As she emerged from behind the column, she raised the gun steadily, aiming it between Trent's eyes. He was thirty feet away, but it would still have been a sure shot. Bill came out from behind his column and shouted "Expelliarmus!" Trent's wand flew away from his hand to Bill's, but he held fast to his gun. He fired it, just missing Bill as he ducked back behind the column. Jude pressed her back up against the pillar she hid behind and inched out to get a view of Trent. He too had ducked behind the column to his right. Jude didn't have a shot. 

                "Jude!" Bill called her attention, wiggling Trent's wand between his fingers. She nodded and he tossed it to her. She pocketed it. Breathing heavily, she forced herself to think quickly. This part of the temple was closed off, the only exit blocked by Trent. It didn't look good, she thought darkly, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her shoulder. Surely there was an advantage somewhere but she could not see it. They were armed, but so was he—Bill had not managed to get both the gun and the wand. She held the wand now, but she knew beyond a doubt that she was too tired to use the bloody thing. But she was smart, surely she could think up something to get this guy who was mediocre at best. 

                Her eyes lingered over every detail of the scene, searching fast for a way out. They came to rest on the scaffold stretching away to the half-finished ceiling. The ceiling! They could climb to the roof and escape that way, but first they would have to get to it. And the only path was straight down the middle of the temple—right in Trent's line of fire. She thought quickly of a way to make him move from that spot so they could make a break for it. Remembering the previous night's escapade, her mind rested on a golden coin she'd seen Bill pick up in the treasury of the tomb. 

                "Bill," she whispered, "do you have that coin from the treasury…the one from the tomb?" 

                He looked at her oddly before placing the wand between his teeth and reaching into his pocket. His face brightened and he pulled the coin from his pocket. He tossed it to Jude, confusion clouding his expression. Shots ricocheted between them and Bill returned a few, still glancing curiously at Jude to see what she was up to. She bent her head over the coin in her palm glaring furiously at it, concentrating with everything she had left. She tried to remember every detail of the amulet she'd held in her hand just moments before and using the last bits of magical energy she had, she transformed the coin into a convincing mimic of the amulet. It was a skill she was comfortable with, having counterfeited coins in her school days just for fun. This one was a fair job for how wearied she felt. 

                "Sweetheart, what are you going to do once your bullets run out?" Trent asked with mild derision. "Are you going to throw the gun at me?" Laughter echoed in the cavernous spaces of the temple gilded with fiery sunset hues. 

                "Haven't thought about that yet," Jude admitted blandly as she fired two shots over her shoulder, still examining her work. It would do, she judged, sticking the amulet in her waistband. She grabbed the wand Bill had tossed her and snapped in easily in one hand. Tossing the broken wand into the middle of the temple where Trent was sure to see it, she added, "at least now we're on equal footing. What happens when your bullets run out, sweetheart?" Her tone was acid. 

                "Look," Trent lobbied equably, like a politician oozing charm laced with venom, "I'm sure we can settle this nicely. All I want is the Aten. If you hand it over, no one gets hurt."

                Jude shook her head incredulously, something in his tone reeking of insincerity. "Funny, that's exactly what I want too. We both can't have it, so what do you propose?" she taunted. 

                "Don't be daft, you stupid girl!" he replied with open contempt. "Lord Voldemort already has the Ankh. He's unstoppable." Jude's chest constricted painfully as she listened. The words had their intended effect. "What match do you think you'll be even with your little amulet? He'll hunt you down and kill you before you get anywhere close enough to use the thing."  
                Jude knew that this was mostly bluster. Still she paused dramatically and adopted the proper fear and doubt in her voice. "Let's say I did give you the amulet. What then? Are you going to kill us too?"

                Trent chuckled softly, the sound echoing eerily around the marble structure. "No," he said, affecting an aloof and jesting manner. "Of course I wouldn't. Just throw it over here and I'll let you go." 

                "Both of us?" she said hopefully, rolling her eyes at Bill who still had his pistol trained on the pillar Trent stood behind. 

                "Yes, both of you," Trent replied, growing agitated. 

                "Okay," she relented after a feigned deliberation. "I'll throw down my gun," she said as she slid her weapon to the middle of the temple floor, "and come out with the amulet, but if you shoot, so will Bill. I know you won't kill me, Trent, because without a wand, you would have to come out in the open to get the Aten. And Bill's an excellent shot." 

                Trent's voice rang through the temple once more, clear and dripping with arrogance. "Sounds like a fair deal. It's your move then." 

                Jude looked to Bill and nodded for him to take aim before she stepped out from behind the pillar. Walking slowly to the center of the room, the sun spilled in through the half-finished roof. She was no more than four paces from the scaffold. Bill was about six good strides behind her, under the solid cover of the column. If she played the cards right, they would both get out of this alive and with the amulet. She stopped in the center of the room and waited. Cautiously Trent emerged from behind the pillar with a slick smile and a gleaming gun leveled at her. He looked as immaculate as always and unruffled. Slowly, she reached down and grabbed the amulet from her waistband, holding it out to him. He eyed her cautiously as he held out his hand for the object. With a quick movement, she pulled her hand back and chucked the amulet as hard as she could toward the far end of the room. As expected Trent dove after the thing and Bill let go a few shots to drive him back into a corner, away from the scaffold and their only chance for escape. Jude called for Bill and sprang up the scaffold. Her hands were sweaty and every rung she grabbed for seemed precarious. Glancing down, she noticed that she was not more than a few feet off of the ground. Bill had already advanced ahead of her and looked back periodically, firing off shots to keep Trent at bay. 

                Above her she heard a curious clack and looked up to see what it was. Bill was near the edge of the roof now, clicking the trigger of the pistol—it was empty. He threw it down to the ground and quickly descended several rungs to help her up. He was not quicker than Trent however. Jude felt her hands slip as a hand gripped her ankle and hauled her forcefully back to the temple floor. She slammed into the stone hard. Blinking she looked up into his handsome and devious face. 

                He was shaking his head as she blinked him into focus. "Nice try, darling," he said, panting a bit with exertion. "I will be needing the real thing, however." He twisted the false medallion in his fingers before flinging it to the ground just beyond her face. She flinched, but maintained her hard expression. 

                "Go to hell," she spat, laying on her back and staring into the barrel of his pistol. 

                Instead of responding to her crass words, he turned his gaze to the ceiling to look at Bill in a moment of triumph. "It seems we've come to the same pass again, Bill. I suspect you have it then?" 

                Bill said nothing, looking to Jude for instruction. She was motioning for him to go, take the amulet and leave her, but he would not obey this command. They all knew he wouldn't. 

                Trent shook his head sadly and glanced casually back at Jude. "I'm afraid I'm going to need that Aten, Bill. You know what will happen if you leave."

                Jude watched as Bill retrieved the medallion from his pocket and studied it appraisingly. With an apologetic look, he tossed the trinket to the man. Trent caught it lightly and smiled. This one had the tangible feeling of power the other lacked. The same feeling that coursed through his fingers as he held the Ankh. It was his—he'd done his duty. Well, half of his duty anyway. Sliding the medallion into the breast pocket of his jacket, he leveled the gun more threatening at the girl he was ordered to kill. "Sorry, darling. But Lord Voldemort was quite clear…you or me. I choose you."

                Jude closed her eyes tightly as if flinching from the inevitable bullet and Trent smirked cruelly. At that moment she kicked out with her leg and caught him just behind the knees. He fell to the ground backwards, the gun firing at the ceiling. She reached out and grabbed her pistol that lay just beyond her grasp. As she felt the cold metal in her hand, she turned sharply to face Trent just as he ducked behind the pillar to her immediate left, gun still leveled at her. 

                "Jude," Bill called to her as Trent fired again, just missing her, "get up here now! Forget the amulet!" She fired her weapon and gripped the rungs of the scaffolding with slippery hands, lifting one foot then the other until she was in the air above the temple. Every other second seemed punctuated by the crack of gunfire. Trent was still shooting at her, but he'd left the cover of the pillar now that she'd stopped firing. He was climbing up after them. She quickened her pace. 

                Bill reached down and grabbed her roughly by the arms, hauling her up onto the roof. Frantically getting to his feet, Bill faced her sharply, the wind whipping their clothes around them, threatening to unbalance them. "Why does he want you dead, Jude?" Bill yelled as he looked over the edges. It was too high to jump. Behind them the river rushed past with incredible force. "He's got the amulet. Now he's after you!" 

                Jude shook her head, confused and just as frantic as he was. They were now trapped. Bill was facing the river with his hands on his head in furious thought, but Jude couldn't tear her eyes away from the edge of the roof. He'd be up there any second and neither of them had any defense—her gun was empty, so was Bill's and he'd apparently dropped his wand in the fray. A hand grasped the edge of the roof and Jude backed away with caution, swallowing hard. Bill grabbed her hand. 

                "Jude! We have to jump!" Bill shouted to her above the wind. "The river! It's our only chance!"

                "What?" she bellowed in reply. "Bill, I can't swim!"

                He grabbed her hand tighter. "You'll be fine! Just trust me!" He looked back a second before he flung them both over the edge. Trent stood behind them, gun raised. Jude's scream and the crack of gunfire were muffled by the sound of the water as they hit its swift surface hard. The shock of the cold water and its hollow gurgle drowned out every other sense of sound, feel, or sight. 


	46. Possession

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. 

Chapter Forty-Six: Possession

_Belloq: "Indiana, once again there is nothing you can possess that I can not also take away."_

_Rene Belloq (Paul Freeman), Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, Paramount, 1981. _

                "Headmaster," he intoned gravely as he paced the width of the office, "the Polyjuice Potion has already been made. This was the only bit of information I waited on." He glanced once again at the hastily written note in his hand. "What are your reasons that I should hesitate further? She says that Voldemort waits for word from his servant—no suspicion surrounds Crouch Jr."

                The Headmaster shook his head solemnly. "Wouldn't you expect such information in person? This was her sole task—to find out if Lord Voldemort knew about Crouch and also where he was hiding. Apparently, she has completed this task. But she informed us in a note, claiming that some important task detained her. I can't help but feel that the mission remains very dangerous, Severus. Too dangerous to rule anything out at this moment." 

                Snape looked up sharply from the letter. "Are you implying…"

                Dumbledore held up a placating hand. "I imply nothing. I merely state that we have not heard from her, save this brief letter, for two weeks and counting."

                "She wouldn't betray you, Headmaster, if that is what worries you."

                The old professor folded his hands over his desk and stared blankly. "That I know, Severus. But I can't help but be cautious now. My advice is to wait for further word from her."

                Professor Snape shook his head. "To delay may prove disastrous, Headmaster. We can't afford to wait." 

                Dumbledore looked defeated, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. "No, that is true enough." 

                "Headmaster," Snape said cautiously, surveying the old man with unease, "I do know what I'm getting into. It is not a new proposition for me to spy, you know." 

                He nodded, deep in thought. "It seems you have already determined to leave. Very well then. I will detain you no longer." He seemed resigned, alarmingly defeated. This was not the same Headmaster that Professor Snape remembered, that compelled his loyalty. The uneasiness that filled the room was not dispelled as the old man attempted a reassuring smile. Nor did it dissipate at Professor Snape's words. 

                "She has never failed you, Headmaster," Snape said, moving silently to the door. "We cannot fail her."

                As the door clicked shut behind him, he silently reasoned with himself in the dark passage that lead from the Headmaster's office to the corridor beyond. There was much that was unspoken in that room, much that both parties understood, but neither wished to discuss. The possibility that Jude had betrayed them was not a viable answer for the professor for her absence now. But if he ruled that out immediately, then the only option left was one that he was equally unwilling to face. This was what compelled him to delay no further. 

                The Headmaster did not wish to voice this either, but he knew the old man also suspected that her absence was not of her doing—that something had happened. But to say that would have given the situation more urgency, and knowing this would make a dangerous situation worse. But he could not wait. He needed to know if the note was true, if indeed she had not come back because something required her attention immediately, something that could not wait for an explanation, or if it was false and she was indeed in trouble. The only way to know for sure was to assume his disguise and follow her instructions. If that information proved to be accurate, then he would know the rest of the letter was sincere, and that she'd discovered something that needed action right away. But what the Headmaster and he both did not desire to articulate was that it could be a trap. If that did turn out to be the case, then the Headmaster would have to rely on his skill as a spy. They both would. 

***

                The wind whipped up his sandy hair as he frowned. His outline was lit by the gold and rose tones of the setting sun. His eyes narrowed and raked the water, defying anything to surface. The gun he trained on the river would take care of anything that did. For several tense minutes he watched and waited before he turned from the edge of the temple roof, satisfied that he'd finally completed the task his master had given him. She was dead, and Bill was taken care of as well. The river was merciless and vengeful: it would not now give up his offerings. They were gone, but the dread welled up in him all the same. His chore was done—he had the Aten. But what of him the moment he delivered this to Lord Voldemort. Surely he would not be congratulated and lauded for his good deeds. Trent was too pragmatic to hope for such adulations. What he expected caused him to hesitate. He was now useless, obsolete. Only a fool would expect to be welcomed back with open arms by a master with Voldemort's reputation. 

                But was running even an option? He surely would track him like a hound and kill him. By taking the Aten and fleeing to…anywhere, it would only be a delay. He slunk back down the scaffold, landing lightly on the temple floor, the dilemma still dominating his every thought. Folding the Aten into his handkerchief, he placed it securely in his pocket and strode out of the temple, contemplating his next move. The sun was sinking slowly, casting a multi-hued light on the enchanting landscape, and the sounds of the market just beyond the block of honey-colored stone and mud buildings made the perfect soundtrack to the mythical set. He loved Egypt almost as much as he loved England, but he knew that if he made his decision, if he ran, these were the last two places he could stay. Unless…

                Trent turned to glance out at the river again and knew that his idea would fail. He would be safe, those bleeding-heart do-gooders would surely protect him if he turned this little trinket over to them. But, as he stared at the rushing current, he realized the glitch—he'd just killed two of theirs. Plus the prospect of turning over a new leaf was unpalatable to him. He struck out into the bustling road, making his way toward the market. He could at least see what he could hope to get for this amulet before he decided for or against betrayal. 

***

                It was colder than she'd expected. For a while, she could sense nothing but the cold. The water surged all around her and even though she knew she had to find the surface, she could not guess in which direction she should struggle. Bill's hand was no longer clamped in her numb, frozen fingers. She was on her own. Her lungs burned with the effort to hold in the last remains of the panicked breath she'd taken before the river had swallowed her. Arms and legs making a valiant effort to fight the current, she kicked as hard as she could but never seemed to make a decisive move in any direction. Dizziness and complacency were swiftly taking over. It may not be so bad, she consoled herself—to drown didn't seem so bad, just to give up. It sounded more like a blessing than anything. She could just stop trying and it would be over before she realized. 

                The numbness was wearing off, she could feel the strain in her legs and arms, the burning of her muscles, the pressure of the remaining air in her lungs, and she could see the twinkle of the light as it reflected dazzlingly off of the surface of the water. With one last effort, she pushed through the water, making for the skittering sparkles and dancing beams of light as it played on the river. It seemed to take forever but she finally managed to break through the water, breathing and gulping the air greedily. It was harder than she thought to keep her head above the water. Every time she'd taken a breath, the water pulled her back down. Trying to stay above the surface just long enough to take a look around her, she found with a sickening despair that she was alone—Bill was nowhere in sight. The shore seemed ages away and she was alone. 

                Wanting nothing more than to give up, to throw a weary tantrum and admit that she couldn't do it, she forced herself to struggle against the water that drug her further down river. One more kick, reaching for the shore and she was closer. The current still tugged her downstream, but she struggled and found that every time she was able to blink the silt-saturated water from her eyes, she was closer. The river was swift, however and it became harder for her to hold her head above the surface. Reaching, she still couldn't feel the ground under her feet, just the rushing water pulling her away. She stretched her hand toward the shore, but knew she didn't have another effort in her. Letting her arm fall back into the water, she marveled at how simple it was, how easily the decision had been made. Giving up wasn't that difficult because they'd already lost. 

                The river swallowed her again and she saw nothing but the reddening sky through the blurry mask of the rushing water. The current still moved quickly, but she felt the movement gain force. She no longer followed it willingly, but something held her back. Through the numbness that settled over her, she thought she could feel a hand clasped around her wrist, could hear a voice. Blinking the water away, she was shocked to be staring into Bill's face. He was smiling. Jude frowned. She didn't want to struggle anymore, but now she didn't have to. He let her fall to the ground, collapsing next to her. They made it—the river twisted in front of them. Jude lay back on the rough sandy bank and closed her eyes, breathing as if she'd run a marathon, choking on the water that threatened to replace the air in her lungs. She flung a hand out and it landed on his chest with less force than he deserved. Opening her eyes, she turned to him and frowned. 

                "You let go."

                He looked at her and smiled weakly. "I'm sorry." Glancing at the shore, he pulled himself to his feet painfully and held a hand out to her. She closed her eyes again and groaned. "I saw him head off toward the market. We still have a chance if we hurry."

                Wearily, she lifted her arm and he grabbed her hand. On her feet, she felt a little of the exhaustion slip away, a renewal coming with the new task—hopefully the last task. She didn't think that she could withstand much more and as she looked at Bill, she felt inclined to add "ditto" to that statement on his behalf. "He went where?" she asked through sputtering coughs. 

                "The market," Bill said, wrapping an arm around her soaked and shivering shoulders, "and if we hurry, I think we can get it back."

                Jude nodded, looking around the emptying street. Trent was nowhere in sight, the temple standing ominously in the other direction. She wanted nothing more than to turn her back to that temple and never think of it again, exiling it from her thoughts with the hellish river. Still as they walked away from it, she gasped, throwing   
Bill's arm from her shoulder and ran back to the temple as fast as her sore feet would allow her. Bill walked quickly over to the temple, frowning and watched as Jude came back out, smiling. Something in her hand glinted in the setting sun—it was the coin she'd transfigured into the Aten. Grinning, she held it out to Bill and then produced the wand that he'd dropped. She twisted it in her fingers with a cunning smile. 

                "We _are_ going to get it back. And I have an idea." Handing the wand to Bill, she noted his confused look patiently. "I need you to make this one just as believable as the real one. Use the strongest magic you can. It needs to _feel_ just like the other one for this to work."

                He nodded and bent his concentration on the fake Aten, touching the wand to it. Closing his eyes he felt the energy leave him through the wand and course through the amulet like lifeblood, giving it the palpable feeling of power that the other one had, a power that tingled and crackled around it. He handed it back to Jude who smiled, satisfied as she examined the work. Tucking it in her pocket, she looked reassuringly into his weary face. "This _will _work, Bill. Trust me."

                "It has to, doesn't it?" he asked, trying hard not to seem skeptical. 

                They made their way through the thin crowd to the market, the sea of people becoming more turbulent. Bill returned his arm to Jude's shoulder, his eyes scanning the crowd shrewdly, although they both tried to keep up the impression of curious tourists. Jude searched too, but not for the same quarry Bill sought. She turned her eyes to the various vendors that lined the streets. Her attention settled on a silk merchant, a fat man with a waxy moustache and a fez, smoking a cigarette and chatting lazily to a slim man in white linen. Perfect, she thought, shrugging Bill's arm off once more. She motioned for him to stay where he was. Making her way over to the silk merchant's wares, she turned to chat with a woman selling fruit. She was not surprised to find that she understood nothing, but soon the woman had become distracted with a child and said a hasty farewell. Jude nodded to her, back still to the silk vendor. Making to watch a group of children across the street playing football, she leaned casually against the vendor's table. Noting how odd and comforting it felt to fall back on her old trade, she felt a twinge of guilt for stealing from the unsuspecting man, but reminded herself that she did this not only for her sake. Folding her arms in front of her, she smiled to the boys and walked slowly back to Bill. In her fist was a length of silk, a long and broad scarf of rich reds and purples. 

                "How did you do that?" he asked with a wry smile. 

                She shrugged and wrapped the scarf securely around her head the way Indira had shown her. Her face now was the only thing exposed, her wet hair having been covered entirely by the fine silk, which fell over her shoulders and ended at her elbows. "Practice," she relented after a few moments' silence. It was good enough, she thought, surveying herself in a window as they continued down the warren of booths and shops—she looked like a Muslim woman, a native unless one looked closely. Anyone who paid attention would quickly note her bare arms and feet—not exactly the custom native women observed. But she doubted that the person this disguise was contrived to fool would notice anything beyond the covered head and downcast eyes. A woman in such dress would never capture his notice, Jude betted, hoping that she was right. Feeling Bill's elbow in her side, she looked up and then followed his gaze. Trent was in conversation with a little man in the characteristic white linen dress. He spoke with wide, arrogant and expressive hand movements, the old man watching him suspiciously. Jude gripped Bill's wrist and pulled him aside, between two stands of fruit. 

                "Leave this to me, Bill." Jude looked over her shoulder at Trent and then grabbed the false Aten from her pocket nervously. "If it all goes well, he won't even know it's missing."

                Bill was slowly shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed disapprovingly. "No way," he said finally. "He tried to kill you before. What makes you think he won't try it again?" 

                She laid a placating hand on his arm. "Because he thinks we're dead, Bill." 

                "Well," he said, still uneasy about her plan, "are you sure you can pull this off?" 

                "Yeah," she admitted a bit ruefully. "I'm pretty sure. I've been doing this since I was six."

                Bill frowned. "What? Stealing?" He sounded affronted. 

                Jude fidgeted. "Well…yeah, you could call it that. I personally prefer 'creative acquisition' but stealing does capture the spirit of the thing, doesn't it?" She fidgeted more as he continued to stare at her disapprovingly. "Well, a kid doesn't get by in London alone without certain tricks up her sleeve!"

                "I know, I know," he said, attempting to dispel her anger. "Just be careful, alright? And if you need me…for anything, I'll be right here."

                She nodded, pulling the scarf further down over her eyes. Turning her back to Bill, she struck out into the crowd, the sun's last rays adding its feeble illumination to the lanterns hung in windows and on polls in the streets. Trent was still in conversation with the man, but his actions were becoming more agitated. Jude watched until her opportunity presented itself—Trent flung his hands up angrily then stalked away from the man. He was walking between the rows of vendors, moving with smooth motion toward her. She bent her head and turned to the booth behind her feigning interest in the copper vases and lamps, still watching stealthily over her shoulder, the false Aten grasped securely in her hand. As Trent drew near, she bid the man behind the table a clumsy farewell and turned around swiftly, smacking into the man behind her. 

                Trent was caught up in his own wearying thought and didn't see the woman. She was muttering incomprehensible apologies and brushing him off. Obviously, she didn't speak English, as his protests went unheeded. Only when he grabbed her wrists forcefully did she cease her neurotic motions. Still gibbering in her cryptic language, she bent to pick something up he'd dropped in their unfortunate collision. His eyes became wide and angry as he noticed what it was that she held in her hand. She was brushing off the Aten and holding it out to him. Rudely, he ripped the object from her grasp and wiped it before replacing it in his breast pocket, striding away from her without another word. Jude stood where she was, head bent humbly until Trent was out of sight. When he was gone, Jude looked up and caught Bill's concerned glare. She smirked. In her hand she held the amulet. The real Aten was theirs. 

***

                "It is yours, Master," Trent said obsequiously, handing his master the coveted item. The Aten blinked in the waning light that trickled in through the dense foliage surrounding them. As the amulet left his hand, now the possession of another, he couldn't help but feel that gratitude would not be his reward. He looked at the sharp and sinister face he'd grown to despise as of late and forced himself to acquire an uncomfortable servility. It may indeed prove necessary to preserve his life. 

                The snake featured man turned the object over in His hand, a thin smile showing the only flash of feeling on His face. He was pleased, Trent noted with a relieved yet inaudible sigh. "You have done well, Mr. Donovan," Lord Voldemort hissed, turning to His companion. "This," He informed the man who, until now, Trent had not noticed standing silently behind His master, "this was the only means by which that useless rabble had a chance to stop me." 

                Trent blinked as a blinding flash bathed the forest in a white light. When the images of the two men and the numerous trees standing guard over them faded back into his view, he saw the ashes falling to the ground between his master's fingers. The Aten was destroyed. It was done and their fates were now sealed. Briefly, Trent felt the relief that he had in fact chosen the right side—Voldemort was all-powerful and those who opposed Him were as good as dead. The one thing that bothered him still was his own insignificance. 

                "It is done, my friend," Voldemort spoke to the man behind him. "You tell me that Dumbledore knows nothing of my plans? Nothing of this?" Voldemort touched the Ankh that hung around His neck fondly, the hieroglyphs glistening under His fingers as if in response. 

                "No, my lord," the man spoke plainly. "He merely believes you have been hiding out, too weak to be of any threat." He folded his hands in front of him and surveyed his master judiciously, completely ignoring the young man. "But," he continued in a measured and serious tone, "he has gained a bit of information that concerns you. You cannot stay here in the forest—Dumbledore has sent a spy that has informed him of your whereabouts. That is what I have come to tell you." 

                "This spy," Voldemort hissed, turning to Trent, "I believe, has been taken care of, am I correct in assuming, Mr. Donovan?" 

                Trent stepped forward and nodded. "Yes, master. As you have guessed, she escaped my first trap…she and a colleague of mine went after the Aten."

                "And? Where are they now that I have the amulet? I trust you did not leave them alive once again…"

                "No, my lord," Trent answered with a smug satisfaction, "They are dead." 

                "Well," the Dark Lord smirked, "I can't say that I am not pleased, but she did show potential. However, I cannot overlook disloyalty, can I?" He said smoothly, His eyes remaining voraciously on Trent. 

                "N…No, master," he choked, watching every movement of his lord anxiously. 

                Through the tense exchange, the man Trent did not recognize remained quiet and stoical, betraying no thought or feeling concerning the words spoken by the others. Even though his face showed no reaction, his mind was in turmoil—the news that the young man had just delivered so unceremoniously had struck him forcefully. 

                "Come, Mr. Crouch," Voldemort ordered, breaking into the man's thoughts, "I will take your advice and leave immediately. Even though it would be amusing to remain in the Black Forest and see what Dumbledore has planned for us, I will not reveal what I have up my sleeve at this point. We must wait…my venture requires further cultivation." Wrapping His thin fingers around the amulet that hung from His neck, He added with a smooth derision, "Besides, I've been meaning to call on an old friend."

***

                "What now?" Bill asked her as she wrapped the amulet securely in the silken scarf that she'd used to disguise herself with. After she'd finished concealing the item, she handed it back to him and shrugged. 

                "I need to go back right away. I have not kept Dumbledore as informed as I should have. He's been waiting to hear from me for weeks now." They both stood on the bank of the river and looked over to the other shore and beyond where Bill's camp stood, a white oasis of magic in the barren yet enchanting desert. Jude thought ruefully that for all the trouble she'd encountered here, she really would miss this place. Exotic and entrancing, this land had caused her to forget all that had happened before she left, even if for only a moment. And he was here, but she quickly shook that thought from her mind—this was absolutely no time for girly sentiment. 

                Taking her hand in his, he glared at her thoughtfully. "Come back to camp with me," he insisted gently. "You can send him an owl from there, and you can't very well travel that far like this."

                She nodded. There was no way she would be able to Apparate, or even to become an Animagus—she just didn't have it in her anymore. She needed a rest, they both did. "You're right," she consented reluctantly, "but I can't stay long…I have to get back as soon as physically possible."

                He put an arm around her shoulder and sighed. "I know…"

                Pushing away from him, she glared angrily. "No, you don't know.  This has probably been some…heroic game for you and now that you have the Holy Grail, you've saved the girl, well now you can just sit back, relax and receive the thanks for it. But you…you don't even know the half of it," she raged nonsensically. "I have to go back there and tell them that I let it happen. I let Voldemort return to his full power—no, not his full power—to unimaginable power." Huffing a deep breath, she continued to rant and pace by the river. "And all I have to offer is a lousy "Hey, but I got this consolation prize for you—good luck getting close enough to use it." Yeah, that's really going to make up for all of the people He's bound to kill before then! But no…"

                Bill crossed his arms over his chest and watched her rage, wondering what it was that he'd said to set her off. It was only a matter of seconds before he realized that it was nothing he'd said, nothing he'd done. It was her. He could have been anyone—anyone unlucky enough to be around at the breaking point. He waited for her to finish before he continued his thought. "What I was about to propose was that we go back together. It's always a little easier to give bad news as a team."

                She blinked, startled. "What?"

                He smiled. "I said I would go with you. If you just give me long enough to tie up loose ends here—get some rest and get things in order—then I plan to go back with you." 

                "Really?" 

                "Really." Replacing an arm around her shoulder, they both stepped wearily onto the boat that was to take them back across the river to the western shore, the stars reflected in the water giving it an enchanted and innocuous appearance, deceptive and benign. Soon the river was behind them along with the hellish events of the day, and it was all Jude could do to stay on her feet just long enough to trudge back through the cool sand to the camp where her series of misadventures had begun. Everything seemed a far off echo, dampened by the overwhelming need for a bath and a nap. 

                Her hand against the white flap of the tent revealed to her just how dirty in fact she was. Glancing at Bill, she noted that he was just as filthy and she felt a little better for it. Surely Adrienne would never have allowed herself to become such a mess, let alone allow him to see her in such a state. She must have held such a standard for Bill to live up to Jude couldn't help but wonder if he felt more comfortable around her than his perfect Adrienne. "All in your head, Jude," she chided herself, pulling a piece of parchment from under a book on Bill's desk. Setting to work immediately on filling Dumbledore in completely, she nodded absently as Bill informed her that he was going to wash up. He left as she put the quill to the paper. 

                It was wearying even to recount the events and briefly she felt how Harry must have when he was compelled to relate what had happened to him the night of the Third Task. But she made sure to leave nothing out, although she spared details and left the end result a mystery for security's sake—however, she assured him that there was no immediate danger and that the information they'd gained would prove invaluable. He would have to wait for the clarifying details, but she felt confident that he would understand the decisions she'd made, and why she'd not kept him posted as these events had occurred. Exhausted, she leaned back and reread the letter. It met with her approval and she sent it away with the common brown owl that perched on the back of the wooden chair by the door. 

                Tired, she got up from the chair and stretched. With a small smile she noted that the bowl of water remained from the day before—actually, just that morning, she corrected, astounded that it had only been a day from that moment to this. Grabbing the discarded towel off of the back of the chair, she wiped her hands clean, shuddering for a moment to remember what these same hands had done earlier that day. She scrubbed them hard before moving on to her arms. 

                Drying her face on the smudged towel, her hair dripping, she looked carefully around the room. A small bureau sat unobtrusively in the corner by the foot of the bed. She walked over to it and pulled a drawer open. She shut it and pulled open the next one. This one held what she was looking for and she grabbed the first t-shirt that her hand fell on. Pulling it out and slinging it over her shoulder, she was about to close that draw when something caught her eye. A gray knitted jumper lay folded neatly underneath the shirt. She pulled it out and felt the soft woolen yarn. Smiling, she noted that it had a large 'W' knitted into it, making it look like something a five-year-old would wear. If Jude had to guess, she'd say it was his mother's handiwork. Carefully, she put the jumper back and closed the drawer. 

                Painfully she pulled on the pajama trousers she'd found tossed over the desk chair and tugged her borrowed shirt off over her head. She was sorry to note that it was utterly filthy as she replaced it with the clean t-shirt that belonged to Bill. Pulling it over her wet hair, she heard a nervous cough and jumped. It was Bill making a tactful announcement of his presence. Quickly she turned to face him, looking down at the floor. 

                "I hope you don't mind. I borrowed a few things," she said awkwardly. 

                He shook his head, also examining the uninteresting floor. "Not at all," he offered. "It looks better on you anyway." 

                Jude smiled a bit and glanced at him momentarily. "Well," she sighed wearily, rubbing the back of her neck, "we really should get some rest then, if everything's taken care of." She snatched a pillow from the bed and folded her arms around it. "I'll take the floor." 

                Bill smiled and shook his head. "No, you can have the bed." 

                "Really," she interrupted him, "I don't mind." They both sighed and let the silence encroach once again. Resting her chin on the pillow clamped against her chest, she glanced at him equably. "Share?" she offered finally. 

                He seemed to deliberate but nodded with a smile. "Deal," he said slyly, "but I get the side by the wall." He pushed past her and jumped into the bed, claiming his spot without hesitation. Burrowing under the soft covers, he exhaled slowly, relishing the well-earned rest. She climbed into the bed, realizing that her eyelids felt like weights and her whole body ached. Still, nothing felt as wonderful as the cotton and the squashy pillow under her head. Blowing out the remaining candle, she even welcomed the dark that enveloped her, inviting the sleep that she'd been denied for days. Next to her she could hear Bill breathing steadily and even though she felt the complacency and forgetfulness of sleep approaching, something still nagged at her, forcing her to voice her thought. 

                "Bill," she said quietly, turning to face him, hoping he had not already fallen asleep.

                "Hmm?" he answered her, propping his head up on his hand. 

                She sighed, feeling immensely foolish. "I know I haven't said this nearly enough these past few days, but thank you. I know I don't always accept help with the utmost grace…but I didn't want you to think that I don't appreciate it." 

                He smiled even though he was sure she couldn't see him. "You don't have to thank me, Jude—I'm glad to help you in any way I can." 

                She sighed and closed her eyes, resolved now that she'd said what was on her mind to fall asleep. Frowning, she opened her eyes and stared at him in the dark, something still nagging at her. "Bill?"

                She heard him laugh softly. "Yeah?" 

                "Why do you give a damn?" she asked, snuggling closer into the soft pillow. 

                "About what?" 

                "About me…why do you give a damn about me?" 

                Shutting his eyes tight, he expelled a long breath. He wasn't even sure he knew the answer to that. "Dunno," he admitted finally. "Maybe it's because you're the most fascinating person I've ever met." He reached out and brushed the hair from her forehead. "Come on, Jude. You can't possibly tell me that you've had no idea that I've had a crush on you for practically as long as I've known you?" 

                "What?" she exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbow, and glared at him through the darkness. "You have a crush on me? Are you sure you've gotten that straight? This isn't just your warped Gryffindor mind playing tricks on you? 'Cause I've always thought that it was just you trying to play the hero every chance you had, and I was just the kid that was always in trouble…"

                "Are you kidding me?" He sounded just as astounded as she was. "You? Needing a hero? Well that is a laugh, Jude." He lay back on his pillow with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling with an incredulous grin. "Only a complete wally would try to save you!" 

                Jude stared at him appraisingly. All this time she'd just assumed that she was either some means of gratifying his bravery or the only way he'd found for getting over Adrienne. But this was a totally new proposition—the idea that he'd harbored a crush on her for years—and she wasn't sure if this was a better alternative than the others. Still, she couldn't deny that it was very gratifying to hear. "Well," she said quietly, unsure of why she felt compelled to continue the conversation at all, "what if I told you that I fancied you at school too?" 

                "Nah, you're joking," he dismissed. 

                "I'm not," she reassured him. "I don't think there was one girl at Hogwarts, at least in my year, that didn't fancy the wonderful Bill Weasley." 

                "You had me fooled, then," he admitted. 

                "You too," Jude sighed, resting her cheek against his chest, feeling exhaustion creep over her slowly, the rhythmic sound of his breathing lulling her to sleep. He wrapped an arm around her, hugging her closer. "Just too bad we can't go back ten years," she yawned. 

                He nodded, resting his chin against her forehead. "Yeah, I guess so."

***

_                The stars remained the same, frozen and unfeeling light, a pure white that mocked the rich black of the night sky. Between the skittering clouds, fine wool strung across the black plane, the stars blinked acquiescently, unconcerned by what they beheld from above. She looked away from them—they were spectators and could not help her. Chill air wrapped its arms around her, whispering of the nothingness, of the emptiness that surrounded her. The green leaves stretched away on all sides, reaching for the cold, pitiless stars. She could see nothing beyond the vivid green of the plants, walled in by the unsettling color, the waxy texture of the broad leaves, the crisp scent of the night air. She didn't want to recognize this place, but she was not memory's master and the scene flooded back despite her wish for denial. The maze was empty, save herself, as it had been in the dreams before. Then they meant something, they were a warning that she had studiously ignored. _

_                Now it was just a torment, she told herself blandly as she followed the subconscious inclination to walk the familiar paths of the dream, to recall what she wished to leave behind in the inaccessible depths of memory. _

_                A dull and aching pain throbbed in her chest, akin to dread, but a tamer feeling than panic. She let her hand trail along the broad, thick leaves and she closed her eyes, no longer willing the scene to dissolve, but hoping for it to reveal its purpose. To deny it, was to ignore the warning. Something was about to happen, that feeling was alive in the air and in the leaves under her touch, in the grass under her feet. This time she would listen as it bade her to do before. _

_                She continued to walk, slowly glancing around as if searching for someone. The same feeling remained, that she had to search for something, something hidden here in this maze. But just as soon as she'd allowed herself recognition of her task, the leaves under her hand melted away. Her fingers rested on the greenery wall, but as she stared, the foliage, the broad, waxy leaves disappeared. They vanished, replaced by a dull, aged gray—possibly a sinister hue at one time in the distant past, but now faded to a melancholy that lacked the will or the necessity to hold the terror that it once held. Studying the new texture curiously, she realized it was a rough, coarse feel, like sandpaper…or stone. The stone under her hand formed a wall that stretched on in both directions. Turning around, she noticed that the gray stone had replaced the green bushes, recreating the same snaking walls in a different matter. Her heart was racing now as she stepped warily over the age-smoothed and weather-stained stones of the floor. The ceiling was no longer comprised of the cruelly distant and serene stars, but of the same grimy stone that lined every inch of the corridor that now surrounded her. She felt the oppression of the atmosphere acutely. This place, wherever it was, was designed to intimidate, to cower and to break. But for what? Or for whom?_

_                Her tentative steps finally brought her to the end of the corridor. The stone here broke periodically into walls of iron, intersected rods of rusted, yet strong iron. Wrapping her fingers around the metal, she tried to peer past it, to the other end of the corridor beyond. What she could not see, she could hear, or more accurately, she could feel it, resonating through the metal, through her fingers, filling her with the terror, pain and depression, despair ending in complacent acquiescence. There was a palpable presence of death in this place that attested to the long years of suffering that comprised its history—and its purpose. _

_                She wanted to scream, to rend the iron from stone and make an escape from the ancient tomb around her, but she found she had no breath left in her. Tugging at the bars she felt her hands connected with, she tried to pull them away, but strength left her. She fell to the damp and cold stone floor, her head leaning despairingly against the bars and she glanced around once more. Her silent screams were the only faculty left, but they were lost in the sea of cries and anguished gasps that made the quiet echo through these corridors with such force. As she stared into the thick dark that stretched away condemningly on every side of her, she tried in vain to put a name to the place in which she now found herself trapped. _

Thanks: **Emjay **(oh, don't worry—I _do _plan to explore relationships, but it will be all unexpected. Bear with the Bill and Jude ickiness for just a wee bit longer. And the gooey mummy? Yeah, I guess Jude suffers from my militant girls-can-do-anything-boys-can-do attitude), **Paru Chan **(I'm glad you're enjoying it and I have no plans to quit writing it, so rest assured that we still have quite a way to go in the story!), **Cheddar **(I have to admit that once upon a time I was upset over lack of reviews, but now even if I never got another review for this story, I wouldn't stop writing it—I'm having way too much fun! I'm glad you gave this a go and especially glad that you liked what you read—I would have felt responsible had you wasted your time on a 44 chapter story that left you feeling cheated!), **Mags **(Yay! You're back! One of my 'long-term' readers, I missed you. Don't worry—Jude will not compromise her non-girlyness for Bill), **Minerva of Tortall **(Don't worry—Bill has a role to play, at least for a while…), **Mirroronthewall **(I'm glad you like it and I hope you continue to read!). **Oliverwood'sgirl **(Yikes! I'm sorry that it will probably be ages until you see this bit of thanks—but thanks for the time you've invested in this). 


	47. On The Same Side

Disclaimer: All situations and characters associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. 

Chapter Forty-Seven: On The Same Side

_'I wonder how you sleep_

_I wonder what you think of me_

_If I could go back _

_Would you have ever been with me?_

_I want you to be uneased_

_I want you to remember _

_I want you to believe in me_

_I want you on my side_

_Come on and lay it down _

_I've always been with you_

_Here and now _

_Give all that's within you _

_Be my savior_

And I'll be your downfall' 

_Matchbox Twenty, 'Downfall'_

                The Headmaster looked up grimly from his desk as she entered the room. She hesitated just beyond the half opened door. He was not alone in his office, but apparently she'd walked in to a meeting of sorts between the Headmaster, Black and Remus. Bill stopped next to her, noting her apprehension curiously, then froze as well, gripping her hand tightly. 

                "Holy shit! Sirius Black!" Bill breathed with tense surprise, his eyes locked on the escaped convict. Black didn't move but held his stare steadily. 

                Dumbledore rose slowly from his chair, nodding sagely. "Yes, Mr. Weasley," he intoned blandly, "it is the very same." 

                Jude shook Bill's arm, drawing his eyes reluctantly away from the intimidating figure of the ex-con. "It's okay, Bill," she whispered to him, "he's on our side."

                "What?" he asked, still a little dumbfounded. "But he killed those people…"

                She patiently informed him that he hadn't killed those people—he'd been set up. Bill nodded, believing her, but keeping his curious stare on the dark and disheveled man who seemed amused at the reaction he'd elicited. Jude's attention however was not on Black, but on the man at his side. She felt her heart beat faster, her mind racing. Without thinking, she squeezed Bill's hand harder, still staring. Did he still hate her, she wondered. 

                Remus was glaring back at her, his face unreadable. He remained seated next to Black in front of the Headmaster, making no sign of emotion either way. Dumbledore had come from behind his desk to stand next to Black, noting the two people at his door studiously. His face was just as unreadable as her brother's but she could sense an undertone of disquiet. She fixed her eyes on the Headmaster, willing him to speak—she could not bear his silence when she was so sure he was angry with her. 

                "Well," he said finally, eyes steady on them, "I am pleased to see that you have returned. We received some rather unpleasant news after your last letter. Professor Snape has already assumed his role as spy within Voldemort's minions, where he was privileged with some information that quite unsettled us all." Dumbledore heaved a weary sigh, his mask of unfeeling melting into a kind sorrow as he looked on her. Jude was startled at his mood and could gather no reason why he could be acting so strangely, so unlike himself. He seemed older and weaker in that moment. "We were informed that you had been killed."

                "What?" she managed to choke out, incredulous. 

                Bill nodded knowingly. "Trent," he said, bringing Jude to the conclusion that he'd reached already. "Well, good thing is," Bill began lightly, trying to bring the mood in the room up a bit, "at least now You-Know-Who thinks you're dead."

                Jude looked away from her Headmaster and rubbed her eyes wearily. His judging gaze was excruciating. "You didn't trust me?" she asked finally, breaking the tense silence, her voice tenser still. 

                Dumbledore glanced up at her sharply. "My orders were quite clear," he said, his voice low yet commanding. "You were to find the location, you were to discover whether or not Crouch was a safe cover. Once that was accomplished, I expected you here. Without exception. You went against my orders." 

                Jude couldn't help the angered frown from darkening her face. "He would have gotten them both by the time I told you what was going on," she defended sharply. 

                "Yet," Dumbledore countered evenly, still Jude could not help but feel an accusation in the words, "he managed to get both of them. I have been informed that Voldemort now has the power he's clamored for, immortality, and the only way to reverse this power. Professor Snape has informed me that Voldemort has destroyed the counter amulet."

                She shook her head and looked away, grudging him the one bit of truth she held over his error. Bill's hand remained tightly in hers, but his other hand reached for something in his pocket. He brought out the folded silk scarf he'd kept on him since she'd given it to him at the Theban market…was it only just yesterday? The pace of events would have made her dizzy in that moment had she not been so anchored in her anger. He unwrapped the silk and held out the amulet for the Headmaster with his boyish smile that had so entranced and charmed her before. Now she paid little attention, her eyes riveted on Dumbledore as he beheld the amulet in Bill's hand. 

                "He didn't get both of them, Headmaster," Bill said simply as the professor studied the object carefully. "And we have only Jude to thank for that. Trent Donovan, a one time friend and colleague of mine, betrayed us. We got to the Ankh, but he got the upper hand. The same happened to this one, but Jude's a quick thinker and quite resourceful, actually. You-Know-Who thinks he destroyed the real one—so now, he's completely sure he's invincible."

                Dumbledore turned the thing over in his hand, examining it carefully. "Are you absolutely certain that this is the real amulet?" 

                Bill nodded assuredly. "Yep, this is the real deal, Headmaster. The other one was just a transfigured coin."

                "Indeed," the Headmaster said, still examining the Aten. Jude watched him impatiently with a frown. It was real and she was certain of it, but it seemed that her word wasn't worth as much as she thought. "And have you discovered the incantation for it?" he asked Bill.

                "Yes, actually," he informed his Headmaster, pleased. "The hieroglyphs around the center," he offered, "they are the spell that activates its powers, but it has to be spoken in the presence of the Ankh, that's the amulet that gives You-Know-Who his powers—this one's counter." 

                "Very good, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore handed him back the amulet to his surprise. "May I count on your help in the future? You have proven a most loyal ally," he said, glancing at Jude momentarily, "and a true friend."

                "I'll help in whatever way I can, Headmaster," he answered. 

                "Splendid," Dumbledore said with the first smile Jude had seen on his face since she'd been there. "You are an expert in magical artifacts such as this one?" he asked and Bill nodded. "Well, then I can think of no other more capable to whom I may trust such a thing. Keep it with you always, Mr. Weasley. Keep it safe and do not let anyone else know of its existence, save those of us in this room. They have my full trust, as do you." 

                "Thank you, Headmaster," Bill said with another boyish grin. "But how will I know when you need it?"

                Dumbledore gave him a shrewd glance and a sage smile. "A point of much importance. I have devised a plan that may take care of more than one headache for a tired old Headmaster," he said wryly, some of the sprite-like twinkle returning to his eyes. "How do you feel about teaching?" 

                "Teaching?" Bill asked with a frown. "Well I guess it depends on what…but…"

                "I believe you excelled in Ancient Runes during your years here, if I remember correctly," Dumbledore discerned, finding that his plans were falling neatly in line. "I have had to do a bit of shuffling among my staff as of late. Lord Voldemort has deprived me of three excellent teachers. I have secured a replacement for Professor Moody, and for Miss Elliot…but I've had to move Professor Johnson from his position teaching Runes to fill Professor Snape's absence as Potions Master. That leaves me in want of a Runes teacher."

                "Well that would be convenient—I would be close at hand," he said, giving intense thought to the proposition, "but are you sure you want someone with no teaching experience? I mean I'm sure it's harder than it looks."

                "Come," Dumbledore coaxed, "you were an excellent student, and teaching is merely an extension of learning." 

                "May I think about it?" Bill asked finally with hesitance. 

                "Certainly, my boy," Dumbledore conceded, returning to his desk. "When may I expect your answer?"

                Bill thought for a moment, looking quickly to Jude before returning his attention to Dumbledore. "By the end of the week, at the latest."

                "Good," the Headmaster said equably, returning to whatever he'd been discussing before they'd interrupted the three seated around his desk. 

                Bill turned to leave, Jude's hand still grasped tensely in his, but she did not move, her eyes remained fixed on the Headmaster. "Do you have word regularly from Professor Snape?" she asked, her voice still marked by the sharp incredulity. 

                "Yes, my dear, I do," Dumbledore answered blandly, as if he expected the question. "I will inform him of everything that has transpired here as soon as it is possible for me to contact him again. You have my word." She nodded, but the disquiet remained. Pushing it aside, she followed Bill as he turned to leave. 

                "I am grateful to you, both," Dumbledore called to them. Jude turned back to the Headmaster reluctantly and saw that he was staring pointedly at her. "You have risked much and have salvaged a desperate situation. For that we are all in your debt." The words seemed sincere and were spoken kindly, but Jude still felt the heavy weight of disappointment. She'd disobeyed him and the blame for everything that had gone wrong lay crushingly on her shoulders. It seemed, though, a small recompense for the harsh words he'd given her. 

                Bill felt her dark mood acutely. Tugging gently on her hand, he looked at her discerningly once they were beyond the Headmaster's office and in the deserted corridor. "Are you okay?" 

                "Fine," she answered without feeling. 

                "He was pretty brutal in there…" Bill continued despite the obvious reluctance on her part to talk about it. 

                "Yeah, well," she said, rubbing her eyes with her free hand, "it was my fault I guess. It's nothing new. I'll get over it." Noticing that she still clung to his hand with her clammy fingers, she quickly disengaged herself from him and looked away, the frown remaining.

                He stopped in the middle of the corridor and stared at her. She stood next to him, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. His expression was kind, and a bit awed. "If they won't say it, then I will. Thank you, Jude, for everything," he said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and hugging her close to him. He held her for a moment, pleased that she didn't pull away as usual. Resting his chin on her head, he watched her carefully. She seemed pretty down on herself and he hated it. "Hey," he said to her quietly, "do you want to get out of this place for a little while?" 

                She pulled back to look at him, curious, still letting him keep his arms around her. "Where?" 

                He smiled broadly. "Home," he offered simply, immediately noting her apprehension. "Aw, come on. Nothing cures depression like Mum's cooking." 

                "I don't think that's a great idea," she said reluctantly. "Your brothers will be there and I don't think Ron likes me much."

                He frowned. "Why's that?" 

                Jude shrugged. "Dunno. I guess it has to do with…he is Harry's best friend, you know."

                "You'll be fine," he consoled her. "Ron will behave, I promise." 

                She sighed long before she nodded her consent. They continued down the corridor and out of the school. 

***

                "Mum," Bill said, bending to kiss his mother's cheek. "You remember Jude, right?" He nodded in her direction as she tried to shrink into the corner of the quaint kitchen. It was small, though, without many places to remain out of the way in. Jude smiled shyly as Mrs. Weasley bustled over to her, taking her by the hands. 

                "Of course I do, Bill," she clucked, shaking her head at her son. She returned her attention to the girl in front of her and her expression faltered. "Oh, my…what happened to you, dear?" She'd placed a hand gently to Jude's face and only then did Jude remember the bruise, quickly looking to Bill while shrinking from Mrs. Weasley's motherly curiosity. "It's nothing really, Mrs. Weasley." 

                "Nothing?" she said, shaking her head disbelievingly. "And it's Molly, dear."

                "Really, don't trouble yourself, Molly," Jude answered, hoping to placate the woman, waiting for Bill to intercede on her behalf but noticed that he was poking around a stove covered in steaming pots. 

                "Aw, Mum, c'mon," Bill said distractedly. "Let her alone. I didn't hurt her nearly as much as she hurt me." She turned a livid expression on him and he quickly converted his smirk into a pitiful sulk, pointing to his nose, that was indeed several shades of black and blue. Molly put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

                "William Arthur Weasley!" she fumed. "I certainly taught you better than that! Why on earth…"

                "Hey!" Bill protested mildly. "She hit me first. Besides, it was dark and we didn't recognize each other." He smiled at his mum over his shoulder as he stirred a pot, testing its contents. "And what's a bit of a bruise any way? Could have been a lot worse considering what we've been up to. Saving the world isn't easy, you know." He clapped a hand on his mum's shoulder as he crossed the room to stand beside Jude again, throwing an arm around her casually. Jude tried not to bend under the weight, keeping her arms folded tightly in front of her and a polite smile plastered on her tired and aching face. 

                Molly narrowed her eyes at her son. "I suppose that would explain why your hand on that clock was on 'Mortal Peril' for the better part of two days! You boys are going to be the end of me, I tell you." 

                "Mum, it wasn't that bad, really," Bill tried to console her. 

                "Well," Molly said, still frowning, "You could have at least written your poor mother to tell her you were alive." 

                Bill nodded, allowing his mum her say. "I know, it was bad of me, Mum, but really…"  
                The door opened and Jude's attention was drawn to the person who'd just stepped into the room. It was Arthur, Jude noticed with a small smile. "Molly," he said, immediately kissing his wife on the cheek. "Bill! What a surprise!" he said as he noted other occupants in the room. "And Jude! A pleasure to see you again."

                Jude gave him a genuine smile as he shook her hand. "It's good to see you too, Mr. Weasley."

                "Molly," Arthur said, turning to his wife, "Percy will be at the office late. He wanted me to tell you not to expect him for dinner again tonight." Molly shook her head and stomped over to the stove and busied herself, muttering something incomprehensible. 

                "How are things, Dad?" Bill asked his father pointedly. Jude knew what he meant. He wanted to know about how support was coming along for Dumbledore. 

                Arthur sighed heavily. "Well, to be honest," he began doubtfully, "Fudge seems to have most convinced that nothing is happening." His dark expression instantly changed into a bright smile, noting Jude's worried, uneasy look. "But let's not ruin a nice evening with such talk. Jude, would you like to see my spark plug collection?" 

                Jude smiled, trying to match Arthur's enthusiasm. "I would, actually." Bill was laughing lightly and shaking his head. They turned to retreat through the door in which Arthur had just come when Molly stopped Bill with a word. 

                "Bill, could you give your mother a hand for a minute?" she asked sweetly. "Only for a minute, dear?"

                He sighed and walked over to his mother, letting Jude follow his father out into the yard alone. Jude turned her back to the screen door as it slapped gently shut behind her and faced Arthur. He was shaking his head incredulously, but smiling all the same. "You have to forgive my wife," he said, conspiratorially lowering his voice. "You see, her boys have never grown up in her eyes. She worries about them constantly. Had that clock made when Bill moved to Egypt. Wanted to keep an eye on him even when he was on another continent."

                Jude replied understandingly. "Must be nice," she said a bit envyingly. "She obviously loves her children."

                "That she does," Arthur conceded thoughtfully. "Ron and Ginny, though, they're the ones who'll have the toughest time of it. Molly will be inconsolable." He continued amicably as they walked across the pleasantly disheveled lawn to a shed of some sorts that one would not be amiss if they added the adjective rickety to. Arthur reached for the rusty door handle but before he could pull the door open two red heads darted out underneath his arm, pushing the door open just enough to make their escapes. 

                "We didn't do it!" yelled one of the figures as the two ran for the house. Jude, surprised, followed the figures with her eyes and immediately recognized Ron and his little sister, Ginny. Neither looked back. Arthur frowned and tentatively pushed the door open and peeked inside cautiously. He immediately burst into laughter at the sight of Fred and George, hands full of garden gnomes, attempting to lay hold of droves more. They ran rampant over every surface, biting fingers and toes whenever possible, knocking over jars of carefully collected nails and bolts, meticulously labeled for display. 

                Arthur cleared his throat, letting his sons know he was there. Their red heads snapped up at the sound and they ceased in mid-motion, gnomes dangling discontentedly from each hand, the room in utter chaos. He brought out his wand and banished the gnomes from the small shed to the garden with a quick spell. "Boys," Arthur scolded, "I thought I told you not to use _real_ gnomes for your gags. It's not humane…for the gnomes or for those on the receiving end of the prank." He tried to sound stern, but a smile continually crept into his lecture. 

                "But Dad," Fred whined, "we can't get the fake ones to bite as hard, and they don't squirm around the same!"

                "Yeah," George offered, "we manufacture high-quality mischief making paraphernalia. How would it look these potatoes just turned into some fakey old gnome instead of a real one? We would have let our customers down!"

                "No real gnomes!" Arthur said, a grin spreading across his face. "Okay?" 

                They reluctantly conceded and turned to leave the shed. Arthur frowned, "What? You're not going to stay and help me clean up this mess?" They left in even more of a hurry. Jude gave them a friendly smile as they quickly brushed past her and they returned it, a bit slyly. She reminded herself to watch her step while she was in that shed. Arthur quickly had everything back in its place with a few handy spells and he was beckoning her over to a table where he had arranged a series of different sized spark plugs. "Aren't they something?" he asked proudly as she bent over the collection. 

                "Pretty impressive, Mr. Weasley," she said appreciatively. "I've never seen another collection with quite so many." She asked if she could pick one up and he nodded his head enthusiastically. It was amazing, she thought, how such a small, supposedly random item, like a spark plug, could remind someone of something that should have been long buried in the rubbish heap the of memory. She wondered if the assignation of memories to certain objects—how they seemed to cling randomly to things, to smells, to particular feelings—was completely arbitrary or if there was some explanation as to why memories were fused to such things as a little spark plug. Turning it over in her hand, she remembered a boy that must have been a good five years older than her, maybe more. He was at the orphanage with her and he had dreams of becoming a mechanic. He always had a repair manual with him that he would read constantly, and he even let her read it once, though she could pronounce only half of the words. She remembered the pictures, however. She smiled and put the little object back on the table with its fellows. 

                She picked up another and noticed that it was caked with a thick layer of muddy brown stuff. "This one's been through the mill, hasn't it?" she observed, showing the plug to Arthur. 

                "How can you tell? Because it's not as shiny as the others?" he asked curiously. 

                She nodded. "Dried oil and dirt all over it. Do you mind?" she asked with a smile, taking a rag from the hood of an old Ford behind her. He shook his head, motioning her to continue. Gripping the rag, she scraped hard at the stuff but it stuck hard. "Stubborn one, aren't you?" 

                "These are used in the automobile then?" he asked excitedly. "I have a manual that has a diagram of the mechanisms of the automobile, but I haven't found exactly where these go yet." He grabbed a thick, dog-eared volume off of a shelf and flipped to a page he'd marked. There was a drawing of a spark plug and he'd underlined the name of the object twice. "Do you know where it goes?" 

                Biting her lip, she remembered the manual that the boy in the orphanage loved so much and allowed her to read once. She had a pretty good idea where it went. Turning to the car, its hood open and the engine and other various pipes and belts exposed, she tucked her hair behind her ears and bent over the engine, her stomach pressed against the cool metal of the car. It was an old car Jude noted and wondered what on earth Mr. Weasley was doing with it. Surely he couldn't drive—even she didn't know how to do that. 

                "A beauty, isn't she?" he said lovingly, patting the fender. "Even though it's against the law, I made this baby fly!"

                Jude looked up, surprised, an admiring smile across her face. "Really? How? What spells did you use?" 

                "Well," he recounted proudly, "a cloaking charm that makes it invisible, although I've been having problems with that one. Oh, and I've fiddled with the tried and true Wingardium Leviosa—added a weightless charm to that one to keep it in the air longer." 

                "Wow," Jude said, truly impressed. "Does it still work?" she asked, her hands in the various workings around the engine, her fingers grimy and black. He informed her proudly that it still did. She smiled and beckoned him to come closer. She pointed with a grin and Arthur stood wide-eyed and awed. There, right in his car was another little spark plug, just like his other tiny treasures on the table behind him. 

                "Well, what d'ya know? There it is!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Oh, he's a dirty one just like that fellow there."

                "It can be cleaned," she told him, thinking of what might be around a place like this that was corrosive enough to eat through the years of dried oil and dirt. "Do you have any lemon juice?" she asked. 

                "Sure," he said. "Molly's bound to have some." He set his manual down reverently on the table and headed for the door. Wiping her hands, she offered to go in his stead to fetch the lemon juice. He thanked her but told her it would be no trouble, but she insisted. There were ulterior motives—she wanted to know what Bill was up to. 

                "Be back in two seconds and that spark plug with be good as new," she said with a bright smile as she left the shed. Outside the light had already grown pale on the horizon, the breeze cool now that the sun's heat had been chased away. Breathing deeply, she felt a twinge of envy for Bill and every one of his brothers and his sister. She'd never felt so at ease anywhere else—everything, the past few weeks, the intense apprehension she felt inside of her constantly—it all seemed miles away from this place. She crossed the wonderfully untidy lawn to the steps of the magnificently hodge-podge house. There were lights already burning inside the small, cozy kitchen and she could hear Molly's pleasant, authoritarian but angelic voice through the open windows. She hopped up on the porch, her hand on the doorknob, but something caused her to stop. 

                "You lost your job?" Jude heard Molly gasp. "Bill, what happened?" Jude pressed herself closer to the wall by the door, trying to stay in the shadow, but straining to hear what Molly was saying. 

                "Yes, Mum," Bill answered, "but it's not the end of the world, now is it?" He sounded as if he wished he were talking about anything else. Jude furrowed her brows. She didn't know Bill had been fired. Immediately the familiar feel of guilt was there again. 

                "It's not? Well then, tell me what you're going to do now?" Molly snapped incredulously. 

                "Dumbledore wants me to teach at the school," he told her blandly.

                "Well that's great, sweetheart!" his mum said reassuringly, her mood having made a u-turn in less time than it took Snape to reduce a daft student to a quivering pile of nerves. 

                "I haven't accepted it yet," he broke in. 

                "Why on earth not?" she answered, a bit of shock in her voice. "You don't think you'll be happy there?"

                "Not if she's not there," he said heavily. "I want to be able to stay with her, to be there if she needs me. I can't do that if I have to teach." 

                "Darling," Molly placated him soothingly, "she can take care of herself. Besides, are you sure that that's going to make _you _happy?"

                "What does that mean, Mum?" Bill countered a bit apprehensively. 

                There was a moment in which neither spoke. Finally Molly clarified her meaning. "Sweetheart, you can't ignore it. She's miserable all the time. Are you sure you want to be a part of that?" 

                "And you think that's her fault?" he asked incredulously. 

                "No, sweetheart, I'm just asking if _she_ truly makes you happy…or if you simply want to help her." Jude could hear the soft bang of pots as they continued to cook through their discussion. "You're a good boy, Bill. You care about people. I just don't want you to stop caring about yourself. I don't want any of my children to be unhappy."

                Jude stepped away from the window, her chest constricting painfully. She couldn't breath and her head was spinning sickeningly. Hardly seeing anything, she stepped out into the darkening yard, the sun only now a light shade of pink against and indigo sky, and walked slowly away from the house. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to get away from there, from the startling truth that she'd understood now that she'd always known. It had simply taken Molly's words to show her how selfish she'd been. 

                "Mum," Bill continued, oblivious to the fact that Jude was now on her way back to Hogwarts, not in the shed with his father and his Muggle gadgets. "She does make me happy. Yes, she is miserable all the time. And yes, she does need my help, even though she insists she doesn't need anyone. But what she can't see and what you can't, Mum, is that I need her just as much." 

                Molly set a pot down heavily on the counter and hung her head. "I just want you to be happy, Bill." 

                He dropped the knife in his hand by the bread and moved to his mother's side, putting his arm around her and hugging her close, resting his chin against her forehead. "I know you do, Mum. But I'm not a little boy any more. You've got to let me decide what I want, okay?" 

                Molly sniffled. "You always did want to make your own decisions, even as a child. You never needed me, even then…you were so independent."

                Bill laughed and kissed his mother on the forehead. "Of course I need you. Who else would worry about me like you do? I love you, Mum." 

                Molly wrapped her arms around her boy and hugged him tightly. Then the door opened and Arthur walked into the kitchen, wiping a black, greasy mess from his hands. "Did she find the lemon juice?" he asked. 

                "What are you talking about, Arthur?" Molly asked with confusion. 

                "Jude," he answered simply. "She came in here to find lemon juice. We're going to clean the spark plugs."

***

                Light from the waning moon, stuck through the black sheet of the clear night sky like a bone fishhook, glittered and danced on the lake as the summer wind disturbed its glassy surface. The night was young, clean and innocent and she felt like a spot, an unholy wrong marring the serenity. Jude dropped to her knees in the grass, unwilling to finish her escape into the castle. She didn't want to—she felt the hostility of the place acutely. Everyone she'd angered were beyond that door. Out here she felt just as much as the intruder as she had everywhere else, but the still evening could not protest her presence except with wind-rustled leaves and cricket chirps. She could ignore their accusations for disturbing their peace, but she could not ignore everything else that vied for her attention, commanded her to feel appropriately shamed. 

                The letter was pliant under her fingers, worn to an almost fabric-like softness, the fibers becoming fuzzy at the edges. She'd carried this around with her everywhere she'd gone since he'd sent it to her…over four years ago. And it was almost two years since she'd lost him. Yet the words of this letter, stained with age and blurred from the Nile's water, felt new—like it was the first time she'd read them even though the contents had long been relegated to the most sacred places of memory. And as she looked at the words now, one of the last tangible connections she had with the first person who'd ever loved her, she felt the shame, tasted its bitterness like bile in the back of her throat. She was ashamed of her third betrayal—after she'd left him beaten and defeated the first time on Silver Street Bridge, after she'd seen the hurt in his eyes as he looked on her as she really was for the first and last time in his life, she'd forgotten him. 

                And it stung almost as bad as losing him. In reality, she'd lost him again. But this time there was barely anything left to cling to, the thin cords of memory were now vanishing like wisps of smoke in a breeze. Egypt allowed her to forget a lot of things—what she'd done to her brother, what she'd done to Black, how she let Harry down and how her weakness had cost Cedric his life. The thrill of the hunt, of constant danger, and of an impossible task caused her to momentarily leave behind much that had recently plagued her, but also that which she cherished most. At least she thought she cherished him. If she had truly loved him, as he deserved to be loved, then she would not have forgotten him. But she had.

                Gritting her teeth, she fought the urge to scream. Lies. She would never ever stop letting herself be deceived by the best liar she knew—herself. The truth of the matter was that she had forgotten him, but now she was trying to twist that one mistake into an excuse to make a bigger mistake. Telling herself that she'd forgotten him because she didn't really love him would make the guilt easier to cope with. She wanted to forget him now, to forget him forever. Maybe then she could be happy. 

                Mrs. Weasley's words echoed in her head once again. "She's miserable all the time. Are you sure you want to be a part of that?" It could hardly be justified if Jude blamed Molly for looking out for her son. But it still stung ferociously, opening her eyes to the fact that she'd been incredibly careless and selfish. She knew Bill liked her—quite a lot actually. Bill hadn't attempted to hide it and Jude wasn't blind. At first it mortified her to receive such attention, especially when there were much bigger things to occupy her mind than silly flirtations. But after a while, she had admitted to herself that his attentions meant a little more to her—she loved the way it felt to be near him, to hear him laugh, to tease him. It felt normal, for once—the stigma that had surrounded her for as long as she could remember seemed to fall away when she was with him. It had been that way with Rhys, but a little more caution was reserved then—unlike Bill, he'd never known the truth about her until the very end.

                Only now did she realize that she'd been incredibly selfish. She could not keep both of them, she knew as she looked down at the paper in her hands, the looping, sensible hand of her first best friend staring back at her. With her chin trembling, she forced her hands to steady, commanding them to tear the accusing paper into oblivious little bits that could no longer shackle her to a fading memory. She gripped the paper hard, feeling the pliant fibers bending and breaking under her shaking fingers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt hot tears on her eyelashes and the letter crumble in her fists. 

                In that instant she had chosen—she could never destroy that letter. Never would she be able to fool herself into believing that she'd let him go. Blinking the blurry tears back, she hugged the parchment to her chest, resting her chin on her white knuckles, breathing in the night air erratically, yet it was not quite a sob. To Bill she was grateful—he was willing to love her despite of who she was. But to Rhys, she owed much more—thanks for giving her the only dream, the only aspiration she'd ever dared to hope for. And to give him up meant to give up that dream that one day she would be able to leave it all behind her, to forget everything and everyone that had ever hurt her, and everyone that she had ever hurt. He'd been her promise of something better—that she could be something better—and she would never give that up. 

                Staring out over the lake, her back to the castle and to the path she'd traversed only moments before her reckoning with the truth, she watched the moon dance over the ripples in the water, still clutching that letter, her expression blank, but her eyes showing a hint of the deep sorrow mixed with bitter relief. He stood back, not wanting to intrude on her thoughts—thoughts he feared had everything to do with what he knew she'd overheard and he felt a stab of sharp pain, aching and deep, to know that he caused her some of that sorrow. Mum was right, he contemplated as he watched her silently glare at the light on the water, she was miserable. And he realized in that moment that he could not fix it for her—some things weren't meant to be fixed. Her sorrow was just as much a part of who she was as her small hands or her bruised and bloodied feet and to want to change her meant that she wasn't good enough. This he now understood. Quietly he walked over to her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. 

                Startled, she jumped a bit and spun around quickly where she sat with her feet tucked under her on the cool grass. Even before she looked up she knew who stood behind her. Bill stared down at her with a sad mixture of confusion and hurt on his open, frank and boyish face. It pained her to see such torment on such an honest and good person, but she hoped he understood what it all meant. She had not realized that she still had a white-knuckled grip on the worried and fragile piece of paper until his eyes flicked momentarily downward. Slowly, she brought the letter down, glancing at it guiltily and then returned her eyes to him. 

                He shifted uneasily on his feet, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets. "Jude," he said quietly, surprised at how unsure his own voice sounded to him, "are you alright?" He shifted feet again, as if he wanted to move closer but dared not to. Inclining his head to the side slightly, he furrowed his brow, a worried expression replacing the confusion on his face. "Why'd you leave the Burrow?" As she glared back at him, he could feel his heart begin to pound against his chest harder. The light caught her eyes and he could tell she'd been fighting tears. This seemed unbelievably alarming—he'd never seen her cry in all the time he'd known her and indeed he'd almost had himself convinced that she didn't cry, or couldn't. Kneeling next to her, he removed his hand from her shoulder and simply stared at her, dumbfounded. Lost for words. 

                Trembling for no reason she could fix upon, she raised a shaking hand and put it to her forehead, closing her eyes as if fighting a wave of nausea. The letter was crumpled in a terrifying reverence between her fingers of the other hand. She didn't want to lengthen the period of awkward silence, but she did not yet trust herself to speak. Swallowing hard, she made the effort and to her surprise, her voice did not sound as weak and raspy as she feared the tension would make it sound. Instead it was an oddly hollow voice, deprived of the intense feelings that commanded her now. Any explanation she dreaded would be insufficient to bring him to the conclusions she'd come to in her brief but shattering moment of truth. So instead she shook her head with and odd and regretfully ironic smile, not at all the gesture a smile was intended to be. She started small—she explained why she left. "I had to, Bill," she said quietly, favoring him with an even gaze. "You know I had to."

                His frown deepened. "You heard Mum, I gather," he said bitterly, closing his eyes and turning away from her. "Jude, she's just…"

                "No," she clarified dispassionately, trying as much as possible to spare him further harm, "you misunderstand me. Your mother is a wonderful and kind woman, Bill, and I envy you that." Her voice shook and she looked down at her trembling hands worrying the worn paper in her grasp. "But she was right back there." Looking up at him with as much sincerity she could gather, she continued, "I owe you an apology."

                Bill straightened his shoulders, his head cocked to the side in confusion. "Why would you owe me an apology?" He reached out for one of her hands, but she pulled away from him, the piece of paper still clutched covetously in her fingers, like a frightened and wary child that feared a precious trinket would be stolen from her. He jerked his hand back as if he'd been burned, mystified over her strange behavior. 

                The crumpled letter in hand, she tucked her hands under her chin again and didn't return her gaze to him, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her, shoulders hunched over as if she were cold. "I…I haven't been very kind to you, have I?"

                "What?" he asked her, utterly lost. "You've been the best, Jude. I don't understand…"

                "I never wanted to hurt you, I hope you know that," she said in a small voice. Her eyes flicked up briefly to catch a second's glance at his face. 

                 "What is this about, Jude?" he asked a bit more forcefully than he intended, but she didn't flinch until he reached up to touch her cheek. She shied away from his fingers, raising a shoulder to her ear, a clear sign that the gesture was unwelcome. Still, he noted that it pained her to resist him. Bewilderment could not have been more apparent in his expression. "Okay, Jude," he threw up his hands and admitted with a deep sense of hopelessness, "you gotta let me in. I honestly don't know what to think. Help me out."

                She took a deep breath. "I don't think I've been completely honest with you. And you deserve more than that, Bill." With a pitying half-smile, half-regretful grimace, she unfolded her fingers slowly, reluctantly from their insane clasp on the letter. An agitated sigh and she found her hand outstretched to him, her letter—one of the few objects that were precious to her—offered to ease his distressed confusion. "I never told you about him because…there never really was the time." Her eyes remained on the paper, cautiously watching it as he held it up and unfolded it carefully, noting her uneasiness over letting it go. As he read the confused frown that deeply lined his tanned face melted away into an expression of strong feeling as conflicting emotions battled just under the surface. He wasn't the only one. 

                She watched him tensely. His hands were shaking, she noted. After he read the letter, his eyes flicked up smoothly to meet her anxious gaze. Inside, she pleaded for him to say something but she would never betray such feeling outwardly. Her thin composure held as he handed the letter back, pretending not to notice with what an anxious and greedy speed she took it from him. "So there was someone else the whole time?" He felt a stab of jealousy, but the sorrow of the confession pained him more than envy of the guy as he saw how his suffering seemed to pain her deeper still. Reluctantly she nodded. "And you still love him?" Slowly she nodded again, her chin quivering as she fought to maintain her fragile shell of control. 

                Folding his hands in front of him, he fidgeted with his fingers, not knowing what else to do with them. He didn't look up—it hurt too much to watch her battle with herself. "So where is he then?" he asked with a sting in his voice. When he finally looked at her, his glance was steely. She blinked and immediately endeavored to quiet her startled nerves, jangled by the abrupt change in his demeanor. "The letter's dated Christmas…four years ago." 

                She swallowed again, trying vainly to dislodge the strangling lump in her throat. Coupled with the constricting feeling in her chest, she thought blandly that it was a miracle that she could still breathe at all. "Uh," she said, swallowing once more, ashamed that her voice trembled, "well, you see, he's…he's dead." She pressed her lips together hard and looked away, raising a hand nervously to scratch her neck, hoping that he didn't notice that same hand quickly brush her cheek, wiping away a single small tear. "He died…the summer before last. I guess," she continued, her voice still quiet and trembling, "I guess I'm just not ready to let him go." She closed her fingers around the letter.

                "Oh," he said dumbly, "oh, Jude…I'm unforgivably stupid. I…I really am sorry."

                "Yeah," she said with a sad attempt at a laugh, "so am I." She looked up at him, feeling the fleeting sting of embarrassment. "I just thought that maybe it could be different, you know." There was a pause in which Jude shook her head with a weighted and heavy distress, but made no sound. "But it never is."

                Bill reached out for her and was grateful that she allowed him this one connection. He gripped her arm gently and searched for her eyes. She looked at him with hesitation, but did not pull away from him. "Don't you think he would have wanted you to live without this guilt, without all of this pain?"

                She broke the stare and looked down at the letter. "I'm not sure what he wanted anymore." When she glanced back up at him, he was frowning intently and studying her judiciously. "There are times that I doubt he loved me in the last moments," she choked out between shuddering breaths, "even though I know I always loved him." 

                "We always feel…doubtful when we lose someone who was close…maybe even guilty, but…" Bill began but was cut off sharply and unexpected by Jude's shrill censure. 

                "Don't tell me that it wasn't my fault, Bill!" she demanded harshly. "Don't you tell me that when you couldn't possibly know anything about it!" Yanking her arm out of his grip, she glared at him with stony contempt. "Because the truth of it is that I _was_ responsible, Bill. _I _killed him!" 

                He withdrew his hand and stared at her blankly. "What? You can't mean…"

                "No," she said with weary rage, dampened by intense sorrow, "I certainly didn't mean it. But you know what they say about Hell and good intentions." She made a derisive noise and crushed the letter in a tight fist, clenching her teeth as she watched the paper constrict into a small, abused ball. "That's exactly what the truth gets you! Every time—you get burned. I should have just kept quiet and let him believe I was as perfect as he thought I was." 

                Startled, she looked up warily as she felt his cool fingers wrap around her tightly balled fist and gently brought it to his lips, kissing her white, tense knuckles soothingly. Shock was apparent on her face as he lowered her hand from his lips that were now smiling kindly and held her still-balled fist to his chest, his boyish face devoid of any accusation or judgment. "You are as perfect as he thought you were," he said softly. "And if he was half as smart as he sounds, he never doubted it for one second, regardless of what you said or didn't say. Whatever happened then, it doesn't matter now. Not to me, and I'm almost certain not to him either."

                Her eyes glistened with the promise of more tears, she could feel the hot sting and she blinked to rid her blurry vision of them. "How can you be so sure?" she asked with a breathless hope that tempted her to believe its sweet missives. But her pragmatic nature warned her against the pain that was the constant companion of the mixed blessing called hope. 

                "Because," he said, brushing a thick, stringy clump of her sandy blond hair behind her ear, "anyone who's ever loved you couldn't just quit." He moved closer to her, the fist balled around the letter still held close to his chest. "I am a faithful witness to that fact."

                She bent her head low, weary pain shredding every ounce of composure she had left. "Bill, you deserve so much more than this," she said with difficulty. "He did, too." Slowly, she raised her chin and looked at him steadily. The paths of two stray tears glistened on her cheeks. "You know what they say: if you don't use something, you lose it. Well, I've never really had anyone to trust…or to love until I met him. By that time, there wasn't much love left in this bitter little girl. I gave him all I still had." She raised a shaky hand and rested it on his face—a tender gesture that felt almost foreign to her callous nature. "I'm not sure there's any left over." Her words held in every syllable the deep despair she felt to have to admit that to him.

                He smiled with the easy innocence she loved in his face. "Do you think you have enough left for a good friend in there?" He let go of her tightened fist with one hand and poked a finger gently at her just below the hollow of her throat. 

Gratefully, she nodded. "I could always use a friend." 

He dropped her hand and put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer, enveloping her in a tight hug. Her fist still balled around the letter, she wrapped her arms around him, gripping the back of his shirt with her free fingers. Her head on his chest, she could hear the rhythmic steady beat of his heart and she felt reassured that he was real—not some construct of hope giving her the last little straws to cling to in the raging river of the past few months. He pressed his lips to her coarse, thick hair that fringed her forehead, pleased to have even a small place in her small heart, for she had occupied a steady place in his for as long as he could feel such things. "You know, I still have to give my answer to Dumbledore. I bet you heard that much of the conversation between Mum and I," he said, feeling her nod against him. "Well, I've been thinking. And I've come to the conclusion that I can't in good conscience give him an answer without consulting my partner in matters of world-saving." He looked down at her and grinned. "So, what do you say, friend—take or no take?"

Jude was silent for a moment. She knew that it was always the same and would probably not change—she would go into battle alone every time. It was the way she operated, no one to consult, no one to rely on, just her own intuition and a lot of luck. Yet the last escapades, while they had been deadly dangerous, had been one hell of a time and she knew she would never forget it. As long as she lived, those two days would be her best war story. But the answer was simple. "Take the job. Dumbledore needs you and that's something he doesn't do casually."

He nodded. "Wanna go in and tell him with me? It can't be past ten…I always thought he didn't sleep anyway."

Taking a deep breath, she felt the tension of the days' events melting into extreme weariness. "Let's just stay here a little longer, okay?" 

He grinned. "You got it."

***

"Yes," Jude cooed as she opened the door to her small room just off a dark narrow corridor no different from the other numerous passages in the labyrinthine school, "I missed you too, Love." The dog jumped up on her as the door swung open, pawing the front of her shirt and jeans, whining plaintively. Letting the door hang open on its hinges, she knelt just beyond the threshold and let Darcy lick her face in emphatic greeting. "It couldn't be helped. But I'm here now." 

A small, low burning fire was smoldering in the grate, Jude noticed. The light it cast in the room was minimal and most of the space remained in shadow.  It was warm, stifling and it seemed to press in around her in the small room unforgivably, like everything else that she didn't feel she could cope with at the moment. She walked purposely over to the tiny window and flung it open, greedily breathing in the clean night air, longing for the moment's respite that she'd had with Bill. But now he was gone. It didn't seem right to ask him to stay after everything that was said. He'd accepted Dumbledore's offer. The old man had beamed at him and heartily thanked him. Still she'd received a cold reserve. She was beginning to resent the one person whose opinion had ever mattered to her. The overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia welled up inside of her as she looked out onto the grounds bathed in the scant light of the waning moon. This place, once her haven, now felt like a prison—she bit her lip and swallowed her urge to leave. 

Turning away from the window, she looked in the dark for Darcy and jumped at the wholly unexpected sight. The low light caught his eyes and they glinted in the shadows like a cat staring steadily at her. Darcy sat next to him, his hand on top of her head, patting her absently. It was the only motion he made. She gasped, startled when she saw him. Putting a hand to her chest, she swore softly. "Jesus, you scared me."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly but with sincere feeling. "Do you mind that I waited for you here?"

Sinking into the chair by the small desk under the window, hand still pressed to her chest, she attempted to slow her racing heart. "Not at all." Silence passed between them and he removed his unnerving glare. She was thankful for that one concession but she resented the silence. A latent anger was palpable and there was no way either could ignore its presence, even though they both gave it their best shots. "She likes you." Jude pointed blandly to her dog. He looked down at the hound and a shadow of a smile animated his face for the briefest of seconds. He remained silent however, so Jude took the opportunity to clear some of the air between them. After this, she reasoned with herself, she was through with apologies. "Remus, I'm sorry about how I left things. I hope Black told you…"

He looked up sharply at this apology, but he was not angry, that much she could tell from his expression. He was shocked, confused maybe. "No," he said kindly, holding up a hand to stop her, "you have nothing to apologize for. Yes, he did tell me everything."

"But," she insisted, preferring to do penance than to deal with anymore guilt, "the timing of it all, hurting you…I just want you to know that I didn't plan it like that." She remained rigid in her chair, glancing nervously at him in the dark, flickering shadows. "I don't want you to hate me for it. I know I deserve it, but…"

He shook his head, frowning. "You don't deserve it. You may not think that I understand, but I do. It had to have been a tough decision and you did what you were told. I can't hate you for that."

"Not for that," she agreed reluctantly, "but for keeping it from you." She glared at him evenly, almost in challenge. "You certainly hate me for that." 

The frown on his weary face deepened. "Jude, I don't hate you." He broke off the stare and looked down at the dog resting lazily by his feet, oblivious. "It hurts that you think I could." The sadness in his voice caused her to snap to attention like a soldier where she sat. Her guilt at these words lasted only a moment then quickly flamed into anger. Suddenly her eyes narrowed in rage. He was playing on her feelings—she knew it and she resented it. 

"Why wouldn't I think that?" she yelled, having long abandoned her conciliatory efforts. "The Headmaster trounced me in there. I expected it from Black, but not from you. You just sat there and watched. Well, I hope you're satisfied. No doubt I had it coming."

He was on his feet before he knew it. Her anger, her rage had fanned his own and composure was no longer useful. He felt like a man at a mark and his only inclination now was defense. "Jude, this is absolutely ridiculous!" Darcy jumped to her feet, confused and stared back and forth between the two bellowing people. 

"Is it?" she interrupted him. "How so? Are you telling me that I must have been mistaken? I don't think I'm much off the mark."

"How did you expect me to react, Jude? The day before Dumbledore had informed me that I'd lost my only sister…and not for the first time." He rubbed his eyes with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. The other hung limply at his side. "I thought you were dead, Jude. And then I see you walk into the Headmaster's office. Needless to say, we were all a bit shocked."

Her anger fled. But nothing moved to take its place. She just felt hollowness, a dim nothing almost like confusion. For the first time, she tried to put herself in his position. How it must have felt to get such news. A steely resentment returned to her. She would not have so easily relegated him to 'lost for good' on someone's word. She would have to see for herself. "Why did you believe it?"

The question was unexpected. But of course she would want to know this—it was Jude after all. She was obviously perturbed about his lack of faith in her. But there was a good answer. He knew what her reaction would be, however, and no doubt it would be as volatile as he guessed. Keeping the truth from her would undoubtedly be worse. "Well," he said with a weary apprehension, "you are well aware that I've never been one to take Snape's information at face value." She kept a steely glare fixed on him as he spoke. It would have unnerved anyone else—his eyes with a foreign animation, an animation that reminded him uncannily of the very man of whom he spoke. "But when it comes to you," he continued uneasily, pacing like a barrister performing for the court, "well let's just say that we understand each other. He wouldn't have informed us had he not been confident in his information." He looked up. She remained skeptical—a tough crowd to convince, he knew, so he would have to be blunt. "I didn't believe him at first, if truth be told. The meeting you and your, er, friend," he added awkwardly, "interrupted today…well, we were discussing the likelihood of his information…in light of the new situation." His expression was blank but with an undertone of kind pity. 

"In light of what new situation? Remus, what the hell does that mean?" she asked with a quiet, but dangerous edge to her voice. 

"Jude," he said, taking a cautious step toward her, "the Headmaster lost contact with Severus. As you must understand, it gave everything a new sense of urgency."

Jude's expression turned from blank to icy. "Why did Dumbledore lie to me?"

Remus looked down and took a nervous breath. "I don't know, Jude. He still has faith that he will have word from Snape in a day or two. He didn't want you to worry, perhaps." Noting her stricken look, he clarified, "it could mean anything, Jude. For all we know, his cover has not been blown, he's safe." 

She was pale and she stared at the dying fire with a blank tension in her features. Shaking her head slowly, she spoke quietly, interrupting his assurances. "You don't know that."

"No," he confessed, "we don't know that. Dumbledore's last contact left him sure that Voldemort was about to change location. That is all we know right now. But the Headmaster is confident that communication will be reestablished soon. He didn't want to worry you about it, that's why he didn't tell you. I have to agree with him, Jude," he said soothingly as she paced to the fire, hardly seeming to listen to him any longer. "Seeing you here gives me hope that it's not as urgent as it seems. Obviously information got tangled and he's simply unreachable." He could almost see the frantic conclusions she had jumped to. 

Abruptly, she turned to him, a sense of insistent action radiating from her. "Thank you for telling me. I know the Headmaster told you not to. No doubt I have stretched my allowance of trust rather thin."

"Jude," he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder warily, "I know what your thinking. You probably don't want to hear what I have to say, but I'll say it anyway: wait. If Dumbledore feels that this will all come to nothing, then I trust him. How often is he wrong?" He pretended not to notice that she was shaking. 

Unwillingly, she nodded. "Never. He's never wrong." It wasn't said benevolently. Her respect was, now more than ever, grudging. The conflict caused every muscle in her body to tense and her head to ache with the pressure of the warring feelings. She knew what it would cost to wait. She knew what it would mean if her idol and mentor, the Headmaster who'd so often humbled her, were humbled himself. It would cost a life. It would mean that she had failed someone who'd never failed her. 

His hand squeezed her shoulder and she hardly felt it. She looked up only when he spoke. "Jude, it terrified me. To think that I'd lost you." He turned her to face him even though her movements were sluggish and unwilling. "I don't want to do that again. Promise me I won't have to." 

She looked up grudgingly. "You won't. I promise."

He pulled her into a warm hug and she felt all anger toward him melt and disappear. "Does this mean you're on my side again?" she said, barely audible against his shoulder. 

"I was always on your side. There's nothing you could do to change that. I hope you never doubt it again." With one hand he stroked the coarse hair cropped short against the back of her neck. "You're my sister, Jude. I love you." 

She knew it was her turn to speak, but she couldn't. It was all she could do to maintain a dumb silence. 

***

                Walking the dark corridors, she could not stay in her stifling room. Her thoughts were too enormous to allow her to stay in any confined space therefore she and Darcy wandered. Soon enough she found herself in the dungeons. Even darker, these halls seemed to suit her mood more and she felt a bit of the painful ache leave her. And she was there—she stood in front of his door. To knock would have been useless. She knew for a fact that this was where he wasn't. Where he was, though remained a mystery. The fact that she'd practically been forced to leave this mystery alone caused a deeper pain. He'd always been there for her, but where was she? Never around when anyone needed her, that was for sure. 

                She shoved the door open, a low creak protesting the disturbance. The room was cavernous and inky black surrounded her. There was a studious reverence in the atmosphere that she was unsure whether to interrupt. She settled for lighting the smallest of candelabras in the expansive stone room. A thin layer of dust had settled over the austere yet grand mantle above the cold grate. Darcy settled unconcernedly on the rug and closed her eyes, opening them lazily every now and again when her mistress would cross her line of sight, slowly examining the objects around the room. 

                A desk littered with unfinished work. She knew he hated to leave things half-completed, another one of his fetishes along with his meticulous neatness. The bed was made, of course. Living with him for about five years had taught her that he slept no more than she did. Plucking a pillow from the dark damasks, she gripped it tightly with both arms, her lips pressed together with grim control. Her eyes swept over to the fireplace, cold and unused. Dragging her feet, she wearily ambled over to a low, rich leather chair, a book slung over the arm, half-read and abandoned. A lonely scene for sure, she felt the loneliness acutely. She sat down in the chair, still hugging the pillow tightly under her chin, glancing warily at the book. She didn't want to disturb anything, but she reached for it anyway. Maybe a week ago at the most, he'd held this book, had read these words. _All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds_. She replaced it reverently on the chair arm and tucked her chin into the pillow. Voltaire was just as much a contradiction as his cryptic tome. All would never be for the best, and there never will exist the best of all possible worlds. In the moments before sleep deprived her of further conscious thought, she remembered hoping that even if she could not have the best of worlds, she could at least see her own small world survive this. 

Roll Call! Thanks to: **Black Dragon **(Sorry if the romance is getting to you, it's not particularly my cup of tea but semi-integral anyway. What happens with Bill? Jude becomes a bit wiser in her involvement with people because of Rhys so she'll have mercy on Bill. Harry? She'll have no clue what he's up to over summer, but look for an appearance next chapter. His starring role is coming up in four or five chapters!), **Emjay** (Continuance of Bill ickiness, I know. But don't lose heart, as I told you, I rule nothing out! I usually can't stand Snape/Student ships, but the story you suggested sounds worth a shot. Is it on this site or another? Title? I'll have time soon to read again!), **Lady Cinnibar** (I think it's imperative for a story to have plot regardless of original character, etc. But I'm pleased you like it. You can look for updates roughly every Friday or Saturday, but don't quote me—it's the end of the semester for me and my stores of already completed chapters have run out, alas. But I'll try!), **Loddmusdd **(Thanks! Even though I don't think it's the best, I've tried awfully hard at it and can only hope that my original story comes out better), **Minerva Of Tortall **(I hope the Bill/Jude was satisfactory in this chapter! And a big thanks for wanting to advertise my story in your Author's Notes—I couldn't tell you how flattered I was! Hope you've enjoyed this story.), **Shadow Mage **(Well, what can I say? You probably won't continue this story, so the chances that you will ever see this reply is scant. However, I thought a defense was in order anyway: sorry if too much introspection in the first chapter got you down, but it is labeled Angst. And paragraph structure? Well, you got me there, but in my defense this was the first thing I've ever written in an other-than-scholarly fashion and I feel too much nostalgia to attempt a rewrite. Jude? A Mary Sue? I have come across some reviews for other stories where people have flamed the author (and rightly so) for Mary Sues and they even created a guideline, point for point outlining a Mary Sue in the Harry Potter context. I was amazed at how well Jude fit the profile. So call it a Mary Sue if you like, but besides the generic, catch-all profiles that people create, I believe my character has much more complexity than perfect ickle Mary. And she's quite dear to me, so I'm not an objective critic. But thanks anyway for your time). 


	48. The Only One Without A Smile

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of this author. 

Chapter Forty-Eight: 

'Something is wrong 

_With the sum of us_

_That I can't seem to erase.___

_How can I be the only one_

_Without a smile on my face?___

_Well now you're laughing out loud_

_At just the thought of being alive_

_And I was wondering…_

_Could I just be you tonight?'_

_Matchbox Twenty, 'Can I Be You?'_

                _The iron bars were cold under her hands. No, not just cold—a debilitating, leeching cold that seemed to seek out every last bit of warmth and rip it mercilessly from her body. In its place…despair…cold. _

_                She was shaking, eyes raking the dizzying dark, not really in search for anything anymore. She knew no one was there. No one at least who would listen to her. The gray stone rose up around her, streaked black in some places by smoke, some by leaking dampness. Putting a hand to the wall, she forced her feet under her and made herself stand, despite the protests in her knees, in her back; despite the sickening whirl of dizziness that almost drove her back to her knees. Blinking away the violently white dots in the midst of her vision, she forced her breathing to steady, she forced the nausea to abate. Her eyes felt hot and dry as if brightened by a very high fever, but she was shaking with cold. _

_                Slowly she brought her hand away from the age-slimed wall and weaved a bit on her feet. A ghost of a grin past her lips—the world spun around her, but for the first time she could recall, she was standing on her own power. But just as suddenly as that specter of a smile had come to haunt her pale and tensely drawn face, it crept back into the shadows where it disappeared for good. Steadying her breathing as best as she could, she fought to keep her balance. And her wits. _

_                Previously she'd thought she was going crazy but the sound hadn't ceased. A soft whimper intermittently disturbed by breathless sobs. She put one foot in front of the other, tested her weight on it. Good, she didn't fall to the ground, a very good sign. She took another step and it held. As she moved further into what she'd thought was impenetrable darkness, it gave way around her into an impossibly thick gray twilight. Enough light just to see immediately in front of her. She continued to move, navigating by the sound of the soft sobs—the only sound she'd heard in the time she'd been in the gray stone maze. The only sound besides the silent wailing of the walls—more of a reverberating sensation than any sound at all. But this…this she knew, she recognized the sound of someone crying alone in the dark, bleak world of stone. The sound was enough to comfort her and dishearten her all in the same instant. It meant she wasn't alone. It meant that there was someone just as unhappy and desperate to flee this place as she was, but also as equally inept at attaining that freedom. _

_                The blackness fading to gray as she continued forward. Then bars. More iron bars obstructing her way forward. But not her view—she could see just beyond the bars. Wrapping her fingers around them she held herself up as she peered into the thick, deepening hues of darkness. She didn't think she could stand anymore and the dizziness had returned with force. Her head was pounding in her ears and her eyes, still dry and hot stung with the aching throb of it. But it did not replace the sound that broke the deafening silence beyond the bars. Jude blinked, feeling her eyelids stick to her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. _

_                A little girl knelt on the floor, her back partially turned to her. The girl's hands hung limply at her side and her head was bent forward almost touching her knees—she was rocking with each sob. Her hair, black like her robes, hung in her face, swaying slowly with her mindless movement. She stood there and watched her silently, not wanting to frighten the child. She kept repeating something to herself as she rocked back and forth, something that Jude had not heard her say before now, but she guessed she'd been saying it all along, under every shuddering sob. It seemed she'd never stop saying it. _

_                Jude stood silent, eyes fixed on the girl who didn't even seem to know someone else was there. Suddenly the girl stopped her neurotic rocking and turned her head slowly to look at her, still whispering between sobs. "She's dead."_

_                She gripped the bars tightly as she watched the girl's inky hair fall away from her face. "Who's dead?" she managed to choke out just before the last sheet of black strands parted to reveal a tanned and intelligent face. A face she recognized immediately. Jude gasped and pressed her hands harder to the iron. _

_                The girl stared at her with a blank face, an even expression though tears continued to stream down her cheeks. "She's dead," the girl repeated with an eerie calm. "And you killed her." _

                Jude awoke with a start and immediately squeezed her eyes shut again. As she opened them again, the fierce color of day leapt into her eyes and caused her head to pound as if a troop of trolls had set up camp in her skull. Putting a hand to her face, she felt the cold sweat against her palm, on the back of her eyelids, on her cheeks, the salty taste of it on her lips. Her face felt warm and flushed. She turned her head with a groan to look over her shoulder, over the chair arm. A fire had been lit in the grate but had died down—the only sign of just how late in the day it was as there were no windows in this room. 

                "House elves," she muttered to herself, "you can't hide from the little buggers." She struggled to fling her legs off of the other chair arm and onto the floor but it was a harder proposition than she had previously assessed. The warm pillow fell from her chest to the floor along with something else that clinked on the ground, muffled a bit by the thick carpet. She put her feet to the floor and remained sitting, head in hands. Peering through her fingers, she saw the pillow at her feet, an empty bottle next to it. That explains the headache then.

                Her eyes remained on the floor, head still in hands. She tried to recall the fine fabric of the dream that had startled her awake, the thin chords of the images breaking like a thin fog in the late morning sunlight. The leafy maze had turned once again into that world of stone. This time, however, she hadn't been alone in the dream—someone else was there. 

                And they had spoken to her. 

                She shook her head. She didn't want to remember what she'd said. It didn't make sense anyway, but the girl said it with such shattering conviction, such deep accusation in her eyes. The image seemed so thin and abstract, the edges blurring into an unreality that reassured her that nothing in that dream was true. Nothing. 

                Pushing it to the back of her mind, she struggled to her feet. She had to get away from the bloody fire, or she felt she would retch right then and there. Standing, the world spun around her, but she was determined to get up. She took a weary step toward the door, away from the fire, thinking that it had taken the elves long enough to realize that she no longer slept in her own room if she slept at all. Almost two months had gone by. Passing out in this chair alone by a cold grate had been the routine ever since she'd gotten back from Egypt, every night when the thoughts were too strong to ignore—the conspiracy theories of how it all could be playing out this very second, how he could have been killed days ago while she drank her self into blissful unconsciousness. The day held just enough bullshit hassles to keep her mind occupied sufficiently, not to forget, but merely to be distracted. The nights were terrible though. Bill knew something was wrong, had even found out all the particulars, but he knew better than to try and fix it. He'd been warned. 

                Alone. Her nights were spent religiously alone, save Darcy, who was nowhere to be found now. She seized the bottle from the floor in a viciously tight grip. Turning to the low fire, almost dead save the glowing embers, she scowled even though it caused her another bout of pounding ache just behind her eyes. She didn't like the idea of intrusion—didn't like the fact that anyone, house elf, or otherwise, had seen her like this. She threw the bottle with all the force she had at the glowing coals in the grate, the sound of the shattering glass satisfying her rage. 

                Furiously she stalked to the door but stopped in mid-step. The book that had spent every night and every day of the last two months slung over the arm of the chair, undisturbed, lay now in a heap of bent pages on the floor. She stooped quickly, ignoring the dizziness, and picked up the book reverently. Biting her lip, she flipped the pages frantically until she found the exact page it had rested on before. Respectfully, she replaced the book on the chair, careful to avoid bending the abused pages further. Swiftly she turned and put her back to the book, heading straight for the door. It was the first day of class and she was supposed to be on duty hours ago.

***

                In the library it was blessedly quieter than the halls, which for the first time in three months, was filled with the chatter of the students. Even though her head was pounding, she dreaded the solitude. Her footsteps echoed hollowly throughout the great, empty room as she strode over to Madam Pince's desk. She sat down and pulled one of the great volumes off the desk and opened it in her lap. She'd been through this text a million times but had found nothing on the Ankh. Her time had been put to use over the remainder of the summer by trying her hardest to find out more about the amulet that was giving Voldemort his power. But she had found nothing of significance—apparently, not much had been discovered about it. She watched over the top of the large volume as a few students streamed in and found seats behind enormous bookshelves, well beyond her line of sight. 

                Frowning, she thumped the big, dusty book down on the desk. Not much help, she wagered—she'd found out all there was to find out about the bloody thing without actually coming face to face with it again. And she didn't fancy doing that any time soon. Sighing heavily and leaning back in the stiff chair, she looked over the books she'd scattered over the desk in the past few weeks and one in particular caught her attention. _Dreams: A Guide To Practical Divination_. She picked it up, immediately feeling foolish. Flipping a few pages, her fingers stopped at a page headed with looping scrawl that read _Messages and Messengers_. She read a few paragraphs before her haughty, righteous indignation took over. Tossing the book irreverently on the ever-widening pile, she shook her head incredulously and almost jumped to find someone standing directly in front of her. 

                Indira was smiling at her pleasantly, holding a cup of coffee out to her. Taking the coffee from her, Jude was reminded of why she was drawn to the quiet Astronomy professor in the first place. She had a silent peace about her that made Jude feel instantly better about everything without having to tell her anything at all. Jude realized that she'd truly missed Indira these past few months. 

                The dark haired woman pulled a chair over to Madam Pince's desk and placed it next to Jude. "Thought you could use some coffee," she said with a shy smile, sitting properly. "How are you?" she asked Jude frankly but not pityingly and Jude was grateful. 

                "Bored," she answered her friend. "I don't know how that woman spends almost everyday in here." 

                Indira nodded sympathetically. "Well, it must have taken some convincing to get her to take over your class," Indira offered kindly, noting the regretful look on Jude's face. 

                "He didn't have any other choice," Jude explained with a touch of harshness to her voice. "Fudge strong-armed the Board. Dumbledore didn't want any…unnecessary trouble with the Ministry. So Madam Pince is the new Muggle Studies teacher and I sit in here all day and research…trying to stay busy, really." 

                "Researching what?" Indira scoffed as she picked up the Divination book. "The future?" she wrinkled her nose and laughed lightly at her friend. "Jude, I didn't think you believed in all that?" 

                Jude pressed her lips together and tried not to laugh. "This is serious, Indira. Do you think I would have even touched that book had I not thought it was the last alternative?"

                "Last alternative to what?" Indira asked in a quiet, conspiratorial whisper. 

                Jude groaned miserably and put her hands to her face. "Asking Trelawney." 

                "Well," Indira offered kindly, "before you make such a drastic move, why don't you run it by me. I took Divination as a schoolgirl, you know. Didn't believe a word of it, but let me take a jab at it. See what I remember." 

                "_Stab at it," Jude corrected her with a small smile. Indira was trying her hardest to cheer her up without seeming to. She must have heard about everything that happened over the summer. "I don't know, Indira. It's pretty boring," she lied. _

                "Come on, then, let's hear it," Indira said, leaving no room for argument. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Jude like a shrink. 

                Jude felt foolish but she gave it a shot anyway. "Before the Third Task last year, I had several dreams about that maze, but I didn't think anything of it. I was simply walking in the maze alone at night, and I remember I had this sense of urgency to find something." Jude tried to keep her voice steady as she explained, but the memories were still strong and her guilt remained even stronger. "The night before the Third Task, though," she soldiered on, "something else was in the dream…a sphinx. It told me that I knew where to find what I was looking for. The scary thing is," Jude said quietly to Indira, "that I didn't know it in the dream, but that night…when it all happened, I knew exactly what I was looking for and I did know exactly where to find it." 

                "Harry?" Indira asked judiciously and Jude nodded. "Jude, I know you feel guilty about him and the other student—," she was interrupted but not unkindly. 

                "Cedric," Jude said with a cloudy expression. 

                "Well, that's all over and there's nothing that can be changed by trying to make sense of the dream…" Indira advised wisely. 

                Jude was shaking her head however. "I didn't think anything of that dream then…but I keep having the same dream—only it changes."

                "Changes?" Indira asked, trying to make sense of the cryptic revelation. "Changes how?" 

                "Before," Jude explained, fidgeting with her fingers, "I always dreamed of the maze—you know, the green bushes and grass—exactly the same as it was during the Third Task. But now, all the green just melts away. It all changes into stone…and it's really dark and…I don't know…terrifying, quite frankly."

                "How long has it been…changing?" she asked with a curious look on her face. 

                Jude sighed heavily and tried to think. "Since July," she remembered, thinking back to the last night she'd spent in Egypt. The dream had crept in then and hadn't left her since. 

                "And has it been the same since then?" 

                "No," Jude answered reluctantly. "Just like the sphinx came to me in the dream the night before the Third Task, there was…a little girl in the dark stone dream."

                "Did she speak to you?" Indira's eyes had gone wide and she was staring at Jude unbelievingly. 

                Jude nodded. "The sphinx immediately preceded the Third Task and Cedric's death." She lapsed into a distracted silence. "I don't even want to guess what's coming next."

                Indira reached over and took her hand but remained quiet. After a moment of wordless understanding, Indira spoke. "I think we should both go see Trelawney. It may all come to nothing but it would be worth a shot. At least no one could say you didn't try." 

                Jude nodded, grateful. A gaggle of giggling girls entered the library and Indira pulled her hand quickly away from Jude and glanced swiftly at her watch. "Oh, dear. Class. I'm late." She gave Jude an appraising look. "Tonight? We'll go?" she asked hopefully.

                "Yeah," she conceded. "I'll meet you after dinner." Indira smiled sweetly at her and turned for the door. "Indira," Jude called to her, "thanks for everything." She found it was getting easier to thank people with practice and the reaction was always favorable. Indira smiled even wider and scurried out of the library. As she hurried out, Jude's eyes fell on a familiar student who brushed past her and skirted the giggling girls with caution, heading for the farthest and least crowded reaches of the library. With a furrowed brow, Jude immediately followed. 

                Just beyond the last bookshelf before the restricted section, Jude bent her head around the corner and frowned. Bag thrown on the floor under the long table set lengthwise under a tall window, dust swimming in the golden morning sun, Draco flopped into a chair and rested his chin atop his balled fists on the table. At the sound of more giggles from girls around the library Draco breathed an agitated sigh and shook his head, staring at the window, his reflection staring faintly back. For a moment she debated whether or not to speak before deciding against it—he didn't look as if he truly wanted company at the moment. She made to turn and immediately Draco sat up straight and turned to face her, an angry scowl on his impressively aristocratic features. Had she not been trained to ignore arrogance, she might have been intimidated by him, but she had dealt with far worse before. 

                "Elliot," he said harshly, causing her to about face. "Don't you have better things to do than lurk around the sodding library?" 

                "Actually, no," she replied coldly, crossing her arms and leaning casually against the bookshelf. "I don't doubt you've heard…"

                His scowl deepened. "Heard what?" he said, still harsh but his tone returning to the quiet reverence owed to libraries and such. 

                Jude blinked but maintained the cold exterior. "So you haven't? Well, I'm sure it'll cheer you up in no time at all," she said with a bit of a smirk. "It was exquisitely embarrassing."

                The angry scowl melted into a sort of curiously distracted but mildly interested expression, as if he truly wanted to be amused with her humiliation but had other things on his mind. She attempted to try anyway. This was the first time she'd ever seen him in such a strange mood. 

                "I'm the new librarian," she said with mild derision. "Temporarily at least."

                "But," Draco said, frowning once again, "who's teaching Muggle Studies?"

                "Madam Pince," Jude answered with a snide smile. "Apparently the Board doesn't want me teaching anymore. Fudge believes that I had something to do with Cedric Diggory's death, regardless of what Harry said."

                "Did you have anything to do with it?" Draco asked curiously with an inclination of his head. 

                It was Jude's turn to scowl. "No, of course not. Don't you know what happened that night?"

                "If you're suggesting that Father told me anything…"

                "He didn't?" she asked, surprised to find herself believing him. "Tell me, Draco, was your father around for the summer? Was he ever gone for a long period of time at all?"

                Draco shook his head and looked away out the window. "I can't believe this…" he muttered under his breath. 

                Jude knew she'd pushed it. Narrowing her eyes, she examined the boy closer. Something was definitely bothering him. Two girls twittered and ducked behind their books, whispering and Draco's expression turned darker. He buried his face in his hands and growled like an agitated cat. 

                "Are you truly that dim, Elliot. Or are you just putting me on like everyone else?" Draco muttered beneath his fingers. Jude pushed away from the bookshelf and furrowed her brows, utterly confused. 

                "Draco, I think I don't follow…did something happen this summer," she said, lowering her voice. "What does everyone else have to do with your father?" She nodded to the girls whispering loudly as they stole glances of the miserable boy.   
                "Never said it did," Draco said blankly, all feeling having retreated behind an icy exterior. Glaring at her incredulously, he narrowed his eyes and favored her with a derisive sneer. "Are you telling me you have no clue what this is about?" He gestured to the same girls. "Don't you pick up the paper, Jude?"

                She shook her head. "The news I'm interested in I can't read in a paper," she answered with a simple shrug. To her surprise he said nothing. Instead he bent and scooped up his bag from under the chair. He retrieved a dog-eared copy of a glossy-covered magazine. She took a few steps forward and read the cover. _Teen Witch Weekly_. The picture spread over the page was a tabloid-esque photograph, obviously the work of wizarding paparazzi. It was of Draco and his father, both candid yet regal in appearance. It was a very good photo of both—at some sporting event by the looks of it. In garish bold type the headline announced Draco as the wealthiest wizard in Britain under the age of thirty-five. Jude frowned. That would explain why the library was packed to capacity with giddy girls, she surmised as she looked from the cover to Draco. He was examining her expression just as tensely as she was studying him. 

                "Well?" he asked after an awkward silence. 

                She handed the magazine back to him with a mildly skeptical glare. "Draco, you've been rich all of your life," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "I don't see how one article in a teen magazine has got your knickers in such a twist…besides the added nuisance of droves of girls following you around, clamoring for an autograph." At a dark look from him, she frowned and shook her head once more. "What, Draco? What am I not getting?" 

                "I stole this from the common room, but I could have gotten this article in just about any newspaper or magazine—they've been running the story for weeks now," he clarified morosely as he shuffled through the glossy pages to the full spread of another such ill-gotten photo, this time prominently featuring a high featured, aristocratic, majestically beautiful woman. Jude stared at the photo. The woman looked ill tempered in the stiff gray, exquisitely tailored suit and hat, her hand dutifully drawn through her husband's arm, the other hand resting formally on her son's shoulder. The entire family appeared chiseled from blocks of ice. In another photo, one tucked away in a corner surrounded by blocks of type, the same woman seemed completely transformed: she was hugging the same boy tightly in front of a scarlet steam engine. He was nearly as tall as she was—this photo was no doubt recent, perhaps a year old. She looked fond of her son. Jude's eyes flicked to the top of the page where, in more obtrusive block lettering, she discovered that Draco had recently come into his inheritance. And quite a sum, she noted as her eyes raked the text for pertinent information. On the opposite page, Jude stopped her perusal of the text, her eyes glued to another photograph and she gasped, not knowing that the surprise had been audible. The photograph showed a dozen or so people all dressed in fine black suits, umbrellas held aloft over noble stances. In the foreground of the picture stood Draco, dressed in black, his hands crossed in front of him as he faced his mother's gleaming, ebony casket, white lilies dripping over the rich, dark wood. Just over his shoulder stood his father. Jude tensed as she beheld this man. She felt a cold jolt as she looked from father to son, startled at how close a resemblance they bore each other—the same features frozen in a stoic stare. She forced herself to remove her glare from their faces to read the caption. _Draco__ Malfoy and father, Lucius Malfoy attended the memorial of beloved mother and wife, Narcissa Dale Bertrand Malfoy, who died of undisclosed causes 15 August. Her son is sole heir of the Malfoy estate, entrusted to her name by husband Lucius in 1980. Narcissa Malfoy was 36 years old. _

                Jude closed the magazine and laid it on the table in front of Draco. She didn't speak for a while, not trusting herself to words at the moment. It was truly appalling, an outrage that someone's personal tragedy could be paraded around as entertainment. She looked up to the boy and saw that he'd been staring at her, the same frightening stoicism that had caused her to note how much of his father's son he was. "Draco," Jude began uneasily, "there are no words, really…"

                "You aren't going to tell me you're sorry, are you?" he spat maliciously. "Because if you are, you can save yourself the effort. I'm tired of hearing it."

                "No," she conceded equably, admiring the kid for his directness. It would have been her reply as well and there was no reason to take offense. "But I do think that what I said earlier was wrong. Whoever is responsible for this should be sorry," she said, gesturing to the magazine article, "but not me…and certainly not you." Jude watched him with curiosity and sadness. But she had no index for this specific sort of loss, no meter stick by which to measure this kind of pain. Her mother was a distant memory, still sore to think on, but not often thought on at that. She remembered the picture of the woman with her arms wrapped around her son, sad to see him part from her for another year away at school. She must have loved him, even if her life seemed to cause her pain. And it struck her as odd that the boy had not even one hand wrapped around his mother in return. It felt terrible to ask, but she had to know. "Did you love your mother, Draco?"

                He looked up at her, startled and a little angry, but he answered as honestly as he could. It was a simple nod followed by a frown. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard, wooden chair and dropped his gaze to the magazine, his own haughty expression staring back. "I don't know. I never really let on…"

                Jude saw the pained expression in his face and she was satisfied that his answer was true. She reached out and grabbed his hand as he fiddled with the dog-eared cover. It was an extremely empathetic gesture and it felt as unnatural to Jude as riding a bike. And she realized it must have been just so with him as well. "She knew, I'm sure of it. I saw that picture, you at the train station. You didn't want to show it, but I saw. And she knew." 

                "Then why did she kill herself?" Draco asked, his voice hollow, no longer angry, no longer sad, just vacant. 

                "What?" Jude asked, sitting up straight and staring at him pointedly. "Are you sure?" 

                He knew what the skepticism in her voice meant. "Look, I know exactly what you're thinking. I know how you feel about Father. But it was confirmed—she killed herself. He had nothing to do with it." She still looked doubtful. "Even from a purely motivational stance, it doesn't make sense, Jude. You read it—I was her heir. Father would not have wanted to kill her. Because of her death, I'm now wealthier than my own Father!"  
                "But maybe it wasn't that—," Jude said, attempting a new logic. "Maybe she knew something."

                "Are you telling me not to trust my father, Jude?" he asked dangerously. 

                Reluctantly, Jude shook her head no. 

                "My father is not to blame for her death. Sure we weren't the happiest family, but then again, we never detested each other. She didn't even live at the manor most of the year—she lived in Lucerne and in our house in Switzerland while I was at school. But she was home because I was there—I was the only reason she came back to England at all. That would make me the only one to blame. She killed herself because of me." He sighed and frowned, still picking at the pages of the magazine. "I wasn't enough for her anymore so she drank some poison, went to sleep and never woke up."

                Jude was shaking her head slowly. "Was she depressed at all that you noticed, Draco? It sounded as if you hadn't expected it…"

                "Of course I didn't expect it!" he shouted. "But then again, I think we've established that I wasn't the most attentive son!"

                Jude gave him a discerning glance. "I think you would have noticed…"

                "She was always depressed. But she seemed, I don't know, a bit better somehow just before…" He broke off and looked out the window. "Look, I know what you're driving at. I say it's bollocks. Father was nowhere near Mr. Evil and his band of devilish dementos. He was around for most of the summer, but he did visit the Switzerland manor after Mum's…just to tie up loose ends. Bureaucratic garbage. Anyway, it's not even my business—he owns the Switzerland estate alone, along with the villa in Barcelona. He had no reason, Jude. As far as I know, he loved her, I guess."

                Jude nodded. "She seemed like a lovely woman. You were lucky to have had each other, even if only for a short time, Draco." 

                He looked up to see her staring meditatively out the window, a look of dull sadness and regret clouding her already dark expression. He remained silent, her words not having fallen on an idle observer. He could guess what she was thinking of and in comparison he did feel a twinge of thankfulness that he had time with his mother. That he used that time ill was his own fault, and now even tabloid pictures of her kissing his cheek before he climbed onto the Hogwarts Express would be precious to him—moments that he had only now learned to value. 

                Detaching herself from her wayward thoughts, Jude turned another judicious glance on the boy. The library had now become empty, everyone having scattered to class. She hadn't realized that they had gone and that they remained solitary and silent at the table in the far corner of the library. From the distracted, distanced look on Draco's face, no doubt he was clueless that he was late for Muggle Studies with Madam Pince. "Draco," she said cautiously, breaking the tangible silence, "if you want, I could write Madam Pince a note. You can stay here if you want."

                He scowled at her and shoved the magazine back into his bag. "Don't do that," he muttered.

                "What?" Jude answered harshly. 

                "Feel sorry for me. I already said I've had enough of that," he snapped as he pushed the chair away from the table with a loud scrape of wood against stone. "Tell you what, Elliot, you can give me a note so I won't get detention for being late since you feel such a strong desire to be charitable."

                Jude smiled, glad that he had returned to a modicum of his usual unpleasantness. "Sure thing," she said and they walked slowly back to her desk in silence. She knew he wasn't pleased to be going back out into the throngs of students who would inevitably hound him about his new fame, but she understood why he refused to hide out. She handed him a small piece of paper with a hasty explanation, not at all an accurate account, but passable enough for Madam Pince. As she handed it to him, she held on just a moment longer than necessary, catching his eye. 

                "Draco, if you just want to talk with someone who isn't interested in your autograph, I'm going to be here for a while, okay?" She was as sincere as she knew how to be and he seemed to appreciate the gesture even though he would never have acknowledged that. It wasn't as if he'd exactly been given the chance, but she knew he wouldn't have regardless of the interruption. 

                Draco had pocketed the paper just as someone spoke over his shoulder causing his expression to immediately twist into an irritated sneer. 

                "You're not Madam Pince," said a familiar voice that forced Jude's attention in its direction. She was surprised to find Ron standing just over Draco's shoulder, and Harry just beyond him. 

                "Well spotted, Weasley," Draco retorted icily, turning his back to Jude. 

                Ron scowled and tensed under the other boy's harsh glare. "Malfoy, don't you have photographs to sign or something?" 

                Draco gritted his teeth. 

                "Ron, Harry," Jude said amiably, "What can I do for you two?"

                "We were just looking for…" Harry began but was interrupted. 

                "Jealous, Weasley?" Draco spat back venomously. "Don't worry, I'll send the ugly ones your way. I'm sure a few of them wouldn't be that picky."

                Clenching and unclenching his fists, Ron seemed not to notice that Harry had put a restraining hand on his shoulder. He stared straight at Malfoy unblinkingly. 

                "Ron, let it go," Harry advised his friend wisely, but Ron had no intention of doing so. 

                "Listen to your boyfriend, Weasley. You'd do well to just to leave it alone." He answered Ron in a bored tone and looked at his watch. He was very late indeed. 

                "Bugger off, Malfoy," Harry shot back. "Ron's not thick. You're just trying to pick a fight in front of a teacher. If you can't win the House Cup by merit, might as well make us lose points."

                "She's not a teacher!" Ron and Draco shouted at Harry in a discordant unison. 

                "The hell I'm not!" Jude shouted back. "I'll still take points if all three of you don't stop this immediately." The three boys studiously ignored her.

                "What's the matter? Scared of me, Weasley?" Draco said in a dangerously quiet but commanding tone.

                Ron snorted. "Keep dreaming, Malfoy. Even Hermione could take you on!" 

                "Yes, the Mudblood with the manners of a highland troll. Can't hide behind her skirt forever, can you?" he taunted. 

                "Like you hide behind your parents?" Ron shoved Draco hard in the shoulder. Draco only narrowed his eyes and glared contemptuously at him. 

                "Hide behind my parents? It would be a lot easier if my mum had such a fat ass as your mother's!" he spat back with a satisfied sneer as Ron seemed to grow a shade or two redder. 

                Ron was seething. "Don't talk about my mother!" Ron bellowed, shaking free of Harry's grip which had loosened considerably as if he wanted to let Ron go just to see him pound Draco's face in. "Yours can't even stand to be around you! The picture on the front page of the Prophet? She looks like she can't stand to have you OR your father around. And you know what? I don't think anyone blames her!"

                It happened in an instant and Jude wasn't even sure what had just transpired until she peered over the desk and saw the boys in a heap of arms and legs and flying fists. Chairs were knocked to the ground and Ron's bag had been ripped open, books falling into the fray. Jude quickly circumvented Madam Pince's desk and tried to pull the three apart but to little effect—she only wound up with a direct hit to her chin. She decided to at least minimize the danger and disarmed them of their wands. They minded little and reverted to a solely fists fight. Jude watched the row cautiously before skillfully extracting one opponent. Harry had stopped trying to deliver blows after Ron had inadvertently knocked his glasses from his face, so it was easy for Jude to pull him away from Draco and Ron. 

                "Help me separate them, Harry, and I might consider letting this slide," she said as he nodded dutifully. 

                Harry grabbed Ron by the shirt collar but it was a difficult task—Ron was fighting with everything he had. Draco was no less adamant about pummeling Ron to death. Jude had a hold of Draco's arm, but he continued to land blows with the other. All three of the boys had at least an inch or two over her, Ron even more than that. Words did even less than strength to subdue them. 

                "Bloody hell!" Jude heard someone shout behind her, near the library entrance. "What is going on in here?" Jude looked up and was grateful to see Bill roughly haul his little brother away. He was looking to her questioningly as he easily restrained Ron. Jude had a much more difficult time with Draco but he seemed to calm down a bit now that Ron was no longer within arm's reach. His hair was disheveled and hanging in his eyes, which remained fixed on Ron as he huffed and puffed, straining against Jude's grip. 

                "Just a little bit of a row, that's all," Jude said with a placating smile, her knuckles white and her shoulders tense in contrast to her bright smile. 

                Bill looked to Ron who still glared menacingly back at the boy across from him, his nose bloody and swollen. "Just a bit of a row? Ron, why were you trying to kill him?" he asked his brother, spinning him around forcefully to face him. 

                "Oh, he deserved it," Ron answered, regretful that he had not inflicted more damage on the other boy. Draco did look miraculously untouched, even though both had delivered several blows, all of which hit their marks. "Every bit of it!" Ron was still struggling even though Bill had a strong grasp on his arms. Harry watched the scene through cracked glasses, staying to the side and unnoticed. Bill looked from Ron to the other boy, then to Jude. "Your lip is bleeding," he said with a nod in her direction. "Did you hit her, Ron?" he asked his brother, who looked sufficiently guilty and shrugged. 

                "Ron," Jude said without the least bit of harshness, "you and Harry should go to the hospital wing." 

                "Yeah, sure, Jude. But what went on here?" Bill asked, not deterred from his first question.

                "Nothing, Bill. Just throwing insults and it got a bit ugly, that's all." She looked from Harry to Bill. "You aren't going to give them over to McGonagall, are you? It's done, boys, right? You won't cause anymore trouble for me and I won't cause any for you?"

                Harry nodded and Ron continued to glare at both her and Draco. Reluctantly he added his consent. 

                "Sure you're okay, Jude? I'll take these two up to the hospital wing unless you want me to stay…" Bill asked, his grip tightening around Ron's arm. Ron winced and growled at his brother to let up. He ignored him. 

                "I'm fine," she answered shortly, embarrassed that he was being protective of her in front of other people. It was truly patronizing. Harry and Ron left with Bill and a calm silence replaced the chaos. Jude let go of Draco, stepping back from him and giving him space. 

                Draco bent and retrieved his bag from the floor. When he straightened up again, Jude was staring at him with a blank expression. "Why'd you do it, Draco?" 

                "So, what? You and a Weasley? Jude, I knew you were plebian but I never thought you were that low class." 

                "Don't change the subject," she said coldly. "Why did you pick a fight with Ron? Walk away. It really is that easy, you know."

                Draco made a derisive noise. "I'm not going to stay here and listen to your lecture on doing the right thing, Jude, so quit wasting your time."

                Folding her arms around her, Jude gave him an appraising glare. "I'm not telling you to do the right thing, and I hardly think I'm wasting my time on you." She took a step closer. "You wanted him to start in on your mother, that's why you said what you did about his mum. You were bating him," at a look from him that told her he thought she was being ludicrous, she added, "you may not have known that was what you were doing, but it's exactly that." Jude shook her head and smiled sadly. "Trust me, Draco. I know, I've been there. You want to feel the pain because it helps. It helps you to remember that you gave a damn at least once in your life. And it helps to feel punished for not letting her know you gave a damn." 

                Draco stared at her, a blank look on his face that could have been indifference but Jude knew better. She reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "Does it get better?" he asked quietly after a long silence. 

                She just shook her head. "Not for a while, I think." Stooping, she collected the few books that had scattered over the floor and shoved them back into the casualty of a bag that belonged to Ron. "I'd be lying to you if I said it did, but I don't know, Draco. Nothing you can do will make it better, not even taking it out on someone else. I know, I've tried that too." 

                Draco righted a chair and listened meditatively. When he spoke, his voice was quiet as if he didn't want anyone to hear a thought that had been spoken aloud. "Do you miss her?"          

                "Who?" Jude dropped the bag behind the desk and took a seat, rubbing her eyes and wiping the small spot of blood from her lip. 

                Wrinkling his brow, he looked agitated. "What do you mean, who? Your mother."

                "No," she answered coldly. "_She _gave _me _up, not the other way around. Why should I miss her? I'm sure she never missed me."

                He shrugged, turning over the last chair and taking a seat. "Just wanted to see if you did it because of her."

                "Do what because of her?" she asked incredulously. 

                He smirked but it was not cruel, only rueful. "All of this." He gestured around him. "It's why you jump through hoops like a trick poodle, Jude Elliot. She may not be the whole reason, but she's definitely part of it. That's why you feel you have to save everyone. Making up for her sins, as well as yours." Her glare was icy and hard, but he held it with little effort at all. "I just want to make sure we're clear, though. I don't need saving." 

                "What are you talking about…"

                He glanced down at his shoes. "You've been trying to change me. You're very clever, but so am I. It bothers you that I won't blame this all on my father, that I'd much rather blame it on myself. And you think it will give him power over me—even more than he had before. Your mistake however lies in the belief that I don't have a say in any of this. I do and I am not easily persuaded. Not then and not now."

                "I never tricked you—especially not now. You lost your mother and you were upset. I told you what I knew about it. Now it's up to you: take it or leave it. No one's twisting your arm, Draco." She turned back to the desk and gathered all of the books that needed to be re-shelved, the Divination book on the top of the stack. "Offer still stands: you can stay or go. It doesn't matter to me." She walked away, leaving him to sit by himself. Heading down a row of books, he was out of sight. She popped a few of the books back in their respective spots and moved to the next row. From here she could see that he had gone. 

                The heavy stack of books in her arms decreased as she deposited them one by one onto the dusty shelves. Glancing down, she saw that only one book remained. She moved to the section where all of the Divination books were kept. Scanning the shelf she sighed and headed for the ladder. Of course this one was going to give her trouble—first it had not offered her one single answer and now it demanded that she put it on the highest shelf. 

                Halfway up, Jude heard a startled exclamation and glanced minutely in the direction. It was a student. "Can I help you?" she asked officiously, still climbing the ladder. 

                "Yes, actually," the voice said nervously, "I'm looking for a book."

                "Well this is the right place," Jude snapped, taking her ill temper out on the girl inadvertently. Feeling a small stab of guilt, she looked down at the girl. It was Hermione. 

                She looked equally as startled to find Jude acting as librarian as Jude was to see that the student who was holding her up was the other third of the two who'd had a hand in making this the worst morning she'd had in a while. "I'm looking for one in particular and I can't seem to find it. It's about dreams."

                "This it?" Jude asked, handing the book down to her. 

                "Yes, thank you."

                "You into that sort of thing?" Jude asked, climbing back down the ladder. 

                "Absolutely not!" she answered, affronted at the suggestion. "It's for Harry." The second the words had escaped, she knew she should have said nothing more on the subject, but her pride had not allowed her to let anyone believe that she could possibly believe in something as ludicrous as Divination in any form. 

                "Is he having trouble with dreams?" 

                "No," she answered a bit too quickly. "He and Ron have a project and, well they were here earlier, but were sort of distracted."

                Jude nodded. No further explanation was necessary. "First day of school and a project already?" Jude muttered as she tidied the shelves a bit, hiding a small smirk as Hermione shifted uneasily on her feet. Turning to the girl, she shook her head and confided, "That Trelawney must be a real hard ass."

                Hermione smiled quickly and then fled as fast as she could. 

***

                "You know," Jude said to Indira as they stood examining the trapdoor, "I don't think this is such a good idea anymore. Let's just go." 

                "Let's just give it a shot," Indira offered sensibly. "It will be good for a laugh if nothing else."

                Indira reached for the brass handle of the door and stopped, frozen in mid motion by an airy voice coming from above. "I sensed you were coming. Please, enter, Professor Sinistra."

                She looked to Jude with raised eyebrows, stifling a laugh with her hand. "Well, I guess hearing _is a sense." Lifting the trapdoor, Indira frowned as the incense-laced air wafted in from the rosy-lit, smoky room. "Do you think she heard what we said?"_

                Jude shook her head and followed Indira into the room. The thin wisps of smoke that gathered in a thick cloud over the ceiling caused Jude's eyes to water. Chintz-covered lamps appeared to grow from every flat surface and even more descended from the eminent cloud of hazy incense, all covered with gauzy material of rose and pink and red shades. The effect was impressive: an instant dive of a fortune-telling stand. In fact, Jude thought that this setup would not be too garish for the inside of a gypsy's wagon. 

                Trelawney fluttered over from a fluffy pouf in the corner, gliding rather than walking as if she too were suspended from the hazy ceiling. She truly was a sight: a wisp of a woman shrouded in a flowery robe that resembled more of a garish nightdress than a robe. Glassy beads of every color hung about her neck and her hair stuck out of an enormous turban-like head wrap like dandelion fuzz, and was nearly as white. Glasses the size of saucers magnified her eyes to a freakish degree, giving her the appearance of a praying mantis or a cartoon turtle. Jude reminded herself not to stare, but even so she could not help but look at her as one is often forced to behold something horrid, like an automobile accident. She noticed that Indira stared as well, but Trelawney never minded. In fact she seemed completely oblivious that her appearance warranted such attention. 

                "Welcome, friends," she said with the air of a Mother Superior. "My Inner Eye told me that there has been much tormented sleep as of late…"

                "I wonder where your Inner Eye heard that!" Jude muttered under her breath, Indira elbowing her in the arm and plastering a manufactured smile on her face. Jude had told Trelawney before dinner why she wished to speak to her, not her bloody Inner Eye. 

                "Be nice," Indira chastised between clenched teeth and a pleasant expression. 

                "Please, please, take a seat. Relax and let your minds be open to what the cosmos wish to communicate," Trelawney said as she floated over to a table covered with aged lace and Indian damasks. Jude groaned quietly. This table had not a lamp at its center, but a crystal ball. Jude dropped into a chair at Trelawney's right, Indira taking a seat next to Jude. Trelawney rubbed her temples and breathed deeply. Turning her astounding bug-eyes to Jude, she cooed mystically, "So, tell me what it is that has troubled you, my dear. My Inner Eye has already informed me, but it helps to locate the conflict within yourself. The words will aid you."

                Indira shook her head with a sheepish grin and pointed to Jude. Throwing up her hands, Jude shoved away from the table. "Honestly, I don't know why I even bothered." In a second she was on her feet and headed toward the door. "This is ridiculous, Indira!"

                Trelawney blinked her great, bulbous eyes behind the thick lenses and gaped, open-mouthed. Indira stood by the chintz and gauze covered table, hands on her hips. "Just tell her, Jude. She may be a fraud, but she's gotta know whether or not a dream at least means something. You can figure the rest out on your own."

                "Excuse me?" Trelawney shrieked, hand over her heart, the other pressed dramatically to the tabletop as if she would fall over in a dead faint at any time. "A fraud? How dare you!"

                "Cut the malarkey, Trelawney," Jude leveled with little patience. "Do you actually get some kick from making a fool of people?"

                "This hostile energy is not necessary, Miss Elliot," Trelawney seethed as she plucked invisible burrs from the air around her. "It clouds my Vision."

                "Look, I don't ask for help very often, Professor," Jude spat at the praying mantis woman, who'd ceased the ridiculous motion thankfully. "The least you could have done was acted professional, not like the two-bit hack that everyone thinks you are."

                "Well, I never…" the woman gasped. 

                "No, I'm sure you don't," Jude said, taking a menacing step toward the woman. "I bet you've never made one accurate prediction in your life."  
                Trelawney's small face was set sternly under her large glasses. "I have! There was that one thing in seventy-nine," she said, gathering her knitted shawl around her shoulders, "though we'd been smoking a lot of…well, never mind! It was still a damn good call! And the other time when…"

                "Professor," Jude spoke dangerously, "if you were half the diviner you've pretended to be, you'd know that I'm not one who enjoys being messed about."

                The little woman raised her chin defiantly. "Well, if you were half the cynic you pretend to be, you wouldn't be standing in my tower. I've dealt with your kind since before you were born, Miss Elliot. I know them well: sardonic, quick-witted, pragmatic, you think we are all a bunch of airheads and frauds. Just because it's an imprecise art, because x and y don't always equal z, you think it's all rubbish. Well, I'll be the first to admit it. Mostly guesswork, yes—that it is. But over the years, I've gotten good. Intuition is a powerful thing, Miss Elliot. And I think you know that. Listen to it more often than you silence it and I assure you, you wouldn't be in half the trouble that you find yourself in now."

                Jude crossed her arms. "Convince me it's worth listening to."

                "That would require that you take a seat, Miss Elliot." 

                Seated once again, Jude looked warily at Trelawney. "What do you need to know? As long as you're honest with me, I'll keep nothing from you."

                "Put me in the scene. As accurately as you can, give me the details," Trelawney instructed, leveling her saucer sized eyes fully on Jude. Indira had long ago reverted to interested silence, watching everything that passed. Jude dutifully explained everything as it was in her dream, leaving almost nothing out. What she had omitted, however, she had not even divulged to Indira. 

                "This girl spoke? To you?" 

                Jude nodded. 

                "Specifically to you?" 

                Another nod. 

                "Did the girl seem familiar in anyway? Black hair, black robes—did that signify anything for you? Trigger any thought? What came to your mind when you saw her?"

                "Nothing," Jude lied. "She seemed morose, sullen. Like…like I was, I guess. When I was that age…" It was all baloney, but it felt as if it contained a small revelation that Jude had not intended. The girl had indeed reminded her of herself. 

                "And what did she say?" The mystical tone of Trelawney's voice had evened out into a minor annoyance. It no longer provoked her as it had, it no longer sounded mocking. 

                Jude blinked and hesitated. "She said…," but she couldn't finish it. She shook her head and looked away. "It made no sense. It was ridiculous." 

                "Perhaps," the professor said with a judicious stare, "and perhaps not. I have the feeling that a message was meant to reach you. Don't' try to ignore it…"

                She sighed. "She said, 'she's dead, and you killed her'." 

                "Exact words?" 

                "Yeah," Jude admitted and looked down at her hands, "don't always forget a murder accusation, do you?"  
                Trelawney glared at her long and shrewdly before closing her eyes and wringing her hands, alternating between shaking them at her sides and massaging them. She rolled her head around on her neck and repeated the process over and over again. Jude wrinkled her nose and scooted back from the woman, fearing that at any moment, she would leap to her feet and begin whirling around like a dervish in a trance. Abruptly, she ceased her motions and snapped her great eyes open to stare straight into her shocked face. 

                "Give me your hands," she commanded in an airy and mystical tone. 

                "What?" Jude muttered, but the woman had bent across the small table and grabbed her hands. Immediately, the professor dropped her hands as if she'd been burned. Narrowing her eyes, she stared at Jude in a manner that could only be classified as suspicious. A tense silence passed before Trelawney spoke again. But she did not take Jude's hand. 

                "You have many scars, Miss Elliot." The professor picked up her left hand warily and turned it palm up. "Dark magic: I sense it in you as I sense lifeblood. This," she said as she touched a cold, spidery finger to the burn that covered her palm, "is from Him."

                Jude nodded without feeling. 

                Trelawney placed a hand under the hand in her grasp and placed the other over the surface of Jude's open palm. She shuddered as she breathed deeply, her eyes twitching under blue and glittered eyelids. Many moments passed in a tense silence, the sound of Trelawney's deep and erratic breathing. Jude looked cautiously from the Divinations teacher to Indira, wide eyed and questioning. Indira shook her head and shrugged. To the casual observer, Trelawney appeared to have dozed off. Jude jumped and felt Indira do the same by her side as Trelawney suddenly pitched forward, then slammed backward into the wooden railings of the chair back. Her head lolled backward, her chin straight up, her mouth open like a crazed asylum inmate. Jerking her head forward, she stared straight at Jude, all expression having fled her face. 

                "You bring great darkness here, Jude Elliot. Strife and disaster are your footprints." Her voice was no longer the airy, fluttery tones of the flighty insect-like woman, but a hazy and sonorous, deep sound. Jude tensed under the woman's cold touch. "You will become our sword, and we will smite our enemies." She took another great breath and continued in a deeper monotone, raspy and more akin to a growl than human speech. "They will tremble but you shall not feel the quake. A great sacrifice will be demanded and consumed. Blood will be spilt on my altar once more. My disciple has returned to me after a betrayal. My hand will fall, and its weight shall be felt. For even one present here shall not escape my wrath."

                Her chest was rising and falling in time to Jude's own erratic breathing. Swallowing hard, her throat dry, her eyes stinging with the incense hanging heavy on the air, she could not speak, she could not pull her hand free of Trelawney's cold grip. With a snort, Trelawney's head fell back again and her eyes lulled slowly to a close. Jude wanted to shove her or something to rouse her just to be sure that the woman hadn't died on her. 

                "Indira," she whispered out of the side of her mouth, not daring to take her eyes from the sleeping woman, "I think she's in a trance." She was answered by a studious silence. Turning her eyes reluctantly from Trelawney, she looked sideways at Indira. She too was asleep, her head slumped over on her shoulder. "Indira!" she whispered louder, trying to rouse her friend. But her efforts were in vain—neither stirred. Swallowing again, Jude endeavored to gain control of her jittering nerves and erratic breathing. Wrapping her other hand gently around Trelawney's wrist, Jude managed to wrest her hand free from her frigid grasp. Immediately her head swung forward and she was staring once again at Jude with the same wide, bug eyed stare. 

                "Sorry, dear, didn't hear you come in!" she cooed in her airy voice. "Must have dozed, but no harm done. What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?" 

                Jude stared at the woman unabashedly. Spluttering incoherently, she turned to Indira. "Did you see that?" 

                Indira glared back at her, shaking her head as if speaking to an unreasonable child, explaining that monsters don't live under beds. "See what, Jude?" she asked pleasantly. 

                Jude looked quickly back and forth between the two before adding a hasty, "Nothing." Something had happened and she had been the sole witness to it. Her shoulders slumped forward as she glanced down at her hands, the burn red and raw. "You know, I think I've changed my mind. Indira, let's go," she said, quickly ducking out of the trapdoor before Indira could protest. 

                Indira trailed her down the tower, shouting apologies over her shoulder to Trelawney, who kept a daft, blissful smile plastered on her face. "Jude, that was incredibly rude, you know. Just walking out like that when we just got there…"

                Jude turned to Indira, her expression hard as steel and just as sharp. "We've been there for the past twenty-five minutes, Indira."

***

                It felt like falling. Jude awoke with her hands and legs spread out on the floor, as if trying to catch something—anything—that would slow her descent. She awoke in the dark, a cold sweat trailing into her eyes as she sat up, panting. She awoke and did not know where she was. Cold stone was underneath her. She wore a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, one sock on and the other on the rug, three feet away. Her hand was burning. 

                Snapping her fingers, a candelabra leapt into view, the candles perched in its grasp having sprung to lively luminosity. It was the same place she'd slept every night that she could afford to sleep. Or dared to sleep. The dreams had become more violent, no doubt. 

                After she'd visited Trelawney, they'd abated in frequency, as if she'd finally purged them. But since last week, they'd become the thing she'd dreaded. A dark and ominous predator lurking at the edges of sleep, she hadn't dared mention them further to anyone after that incident. In fact, she felt guilty for having involved anyone in the first place. And lately, she'd only been justified in that belief—the dreams had become almost more than she could bare and she didn't want anyone to have to share that. She was only set firmer in her resolve as she looked down at her open palm, blood pooling in the fine cracks and lines in her skin, the flesh red and raw.

                Picking herself up off of the floor, she glanced at the clock on the mantel, ticking low and marking the time audibly. It wasn't as late as she'd thought it was—not even past eleven—still Halloween. Balling her fists under her chin, she glared at the clock and sighed heavily, a decision having been made instantly. Dumbledore should know what Trelawney had said.

***

                Her hand, still red and raw but no longer bloody, she balled into a fist and banged on the door in front of her. Before there was an answer, she wrenched it open and went in. Just beyond the door, she paused. She stared straight ahead, no expression, no clue that would give away her feelings. Immediately she knew something was up—why else would they be there? To chat? She highly doubted that.

                The Headmaster sat behind his desk, staring intently back at her. Remus and his buddy Black sat by quietly, motionless. She glared, the million questions that she wanted to put to the three choking her. She couldn't speak. Dumbledore crossed his hands sagely over his desk and held her glare evenly. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to talk.

                "What's going on, Professor?" she asked quietly, a tense edge to her voice. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

                The Headmaster held up a hand to silence her. She furrowed her brow looking around. Sizing up the scene immediately, she knew all of the answers to her questions. Any confessions she was about to make were lost in the deep pools of anger and resentment that had been growing inside her for some time now. 

                Nodding her head toward Black and Remus, she glared darkly at Dumbledore. "It's Snape, isn't it?" Her edged question received an inclination of the professor's wise head. "Then what are they doing here? Not exactly friends, are you two?" Black was beginning to silently fume, but Remus had judiciously placed a hand on his arm, reminding him to be cautious. 

                "We're on the same side," Remus said calmly. "He's one of us now. The past is of little consequence."

                "Really?" she said acidly. "Black, are you planning to run off to the rescue?" At a grim look from the darkly shadowed man, she had her answer. "No, I didn't think so." She returned her attention swiftly to the Headmaster. "When were you going to tell me? Was I going to have to find out the way I did last time?" Her tone escalated from tense to dangerous. 

                "I would have brought you into my confidence when I felt it was necessary," Dumbledore remarked with quiet determination. 

                "When it was necessary?" she railed, menacingly stepping closer. "An ally, one of your few loyal friends, is missing…and you tell two of the people who've hated him for years. Not quite a brilliant plan…that is, if you wanted him back." 

                A tense, stifling quiet filled the air, uncomfortable for all except Jude. Her eyes pierced, roving keenly for any truth to her last cutting remark. The Headmaster retained a curious calm, a practiced calm that attested to his deep capacity for patience. Remus and Black were silent out of pure shock that someone would dare accuse such a venerable man of what she suggested. 

                "You know I would go, without hesitation, Professor. Why do you choose to lie to me instead?" There was a hint of a plea in her voice. She wanted to understand his change of feeling toward her. There was a time when he would have trusted her with his life. She wasn't so sure he trusted her very much anymore. 

                "I would tell you anything you wish to know. To lie to you is a treachery that I take very seriously, and I would never betray you in that way. Trust is not easily gained, yours especially, my dear. I have merely chosen with care the timing of my revelations. You are close to the situation—too close in my mind. I would not have you wandering into Voldemort's hands…even if it was the only option."

                "So," she said quietly, "it's true, then. He's been found out."

                Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Communication has been sporadic at best this past week, terminating for good three days ago."

                "But you don't know for sure, I mean…" 

                "It is certain, Jude. He was interrupted in our last conference."

                The Headmaster's voice was drowned out by a low ringing in Jude's ears and her throat was dry. She swallowed hard, trying to dispel the ringing so she could think straight. Looking up sharply into the Headmaster's eyes, she scowled fiercely, shaking her head. "Tell me you were planning to do something. Tell me you aren't just going to leave him there." 

                "We have no other choice. Voldemort's new location was not even revealed to us," Dumbledore admitted, removing his glasses and polishing them distractedly. "I am very much aware of the value of even one of my allies, Jude, and if I believed I could get him back, I would risk another to accomplish this. But the truth is we are outnumbered. The Ministry has divided us…I cannot spare even those who would be willing for such a task."

                "And I am not an option," she repeated morosely. Studying her shoes, she frowned darkly, brooding. "Professor, could you perhaps enlighten me?" She lifted her gaze, no longer angry, but tauntingly playful—still dangerous, like a feline interest in prey. Her eyes glinted coldly, the light seeming to come from well below the surface as if from fathoms below the surface of a deep pool, giving a sort of mad glee to her expression. "Why do you fear me so?"

                The Headmaster stood abruptly. "I do not fear you, but fear for you. I am not quite certain you know just how dangerous your attraction to him is. And I see it grow stronger as he grows stronger. I fear neither you nor your power, but I fear what would be if he once again held sway over you." 

                If this confused her, she didn't show it. "So I stay behind a desk like a good little girl, keep out of trouble while everything goes to hell around me. That's the deal?"

                The Headmaster sighed heavily, but held his ground. "If keeping you out of harm's way protects you from him, then it is better for you to be idle. I have strived to give you tasks that have kept you as far away from him as possible. And if I can no longer use you, when the tasks become too risky, then I will have to rely on others…and you will have to accept this. To help our cause, you will have to resist the temptation to rush headlong into danger—to him."

                Grinding her teeth, she glared at him, her eyes narrowed angrily. "Bollocks! Then why did you let me track Him in June?"

                "That was dangerous for sure, but I've discovered what I needed to know—I realized to what extent Voldemort has influence over you. Strong, to be sure, but you fought it well. And a lucky thing he sent someone else after the amulets—I was expecting him to go after them personally." He folded his hands knowingly in front of him and stared at her. "He is stronger now, and the chances we took have become too dangerous, my dear."

                She'd been glowering, huffing and puffing with rage that she could no longer hold in. "You arrogant bastard! Is that all I am to you? Everyone is your pawn, aren't they? You think you can just order us around? Set one in front of the queen and see if she pounces? Well, you've lost one. Makes you play a bit more cautiously now, doesn't it?"

                "I didn't dangle you in front of him like bait, if that is what you were inferring. I knew what would happen if…"

                She threw her hands up in air, exasperated. "I can't believe this!" Stomping over to his desk, she placed her hands palms down on his desk and looked him squarely in the face. "Now I understand why you keep that hack Trelawney around. You're both into making people believe you know everything. A bit of professional respect between you two, I'll bet. What you don't realize is that I would still follow you even if you didn't know all of the answers!" She let her head drop, feeling the heavy weight of disappointment…in herself and in him. It was difficult to recognize that your hero is as human as you are. It couldn't be easy to have the pressure of everyone's hopes and dreams of a peaceful world resting on your shoulders and for an instant she pitied him. Neither of them, however, wanted pity. And neither wanted to back down. "I had faith in you, even after I'd lost faith in everything else. Why can't you do the same for me?" 

                Another great sigh. "I have the deepest faith in you…and that you will soon see the wisdom in my decision. I forbid you to go."

                Jude shoved herself away from the desk as if it was a vile, repulsive creature. Glaring at the Headmaster, she backed toward the door, shocked and disbelieving and more enraged than she could remember ever feeling before. Her eyes felt hot and dry as scarlet anger burned brightly in her cheeks. It had never hurt and incensed her so much as it had now: seeing her mentor, her idle, topple and fall from the pedestal she believed he would always inhabit. She couldn't remember feeling this way when she'd finally admitted to herself that Voldemort had lied to her and betrayed her, but deep down she must have always known that He had merely used her. Dumbledore was supposed to be different though, somehow. He was supposed to be infallible. 

                The heavy door resounded in the stone passageway, a satisfying racket that matched her blazing rage. In a blinded fury, she ran down the corridor, not even knowing in what direction she was headed until she slammed face first into a door. Blinking, she looked around her, utterly confused as to how she came to stand in front of Bill's door. Without thinking, she wrenched the handle open and went inside. 

                The door clicked open, snatching his attention from the papers scattered in front of him. Looking up, he saw Jude enter, unsure at first then resolved, drawing herself up—creating a presence that demanded notice. She shut the door, too forceful an action to be casual. Still she held herself in an unaffected posture, as if she didn't have a care in the world. He knew better from the look in her eyes. A dull fire of anger, having leapt high with a great fury only a short while ago but already abating, attested to some recent catalyst reacting with her volatile nature. So he played along. 

                "What's the matter, Jude?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers carelessly behind his head and giving her a judicious glance. 

                She shrugged, a catty smile playing at her lips. "Does something have to be the matter?" she asked, trailing a finger along the desk as she closed the distance between them. 

                He furrowed his brow. However amusing he found the unexpected interruption, he was struck forcibly by the oddity—he'd never seen her act this way. It was clear, though, that the last thing she wanted was to chat about what was bothering her. Too much of their conversations lately had been devoured by his nosy questions and her artful dodging. "Well, then. To what do I owe this…interruption?" 

                Leaning back against his desk, she looked up at the ceiling as if searching its shadows half-heartedly for the answer. "Chess," she concluded, with a sly grin. Laughing at his confused frown, she shook her head. "You know," she admitted, the manufactured grin replaced for the slightest of seconds with an ironic, rueful expression, "it feels good to laugh for once." The feline grin was back and she was eyeing him curiously. "What was so important that I was interrupting?" She glanced behind her. The desk was covered in papers, half of them graded, the other half still needing another look. "This?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. 

                "Yep. That." Bill looked from the papers beneath the flat of her palm to her face. The curious amusement was growing. What was she playing at? Obviously it was his job to find out. Old question and answer was out. Boring. No longer any fun. She wanted to tell him something, but now he had to work for it. If he could call this _work. _

                Quick as a dart. Man, she could move fast! He'd never realized it before. But as he watched her hand shoot out from her side across the smooth surface of the desk, he was amazed. It hardly seemed as if her hand had moved at all, but the papers scattered all over the floor attested to that fact even if his eyes felt that it was questionable. Her expression was openly challenging, but still catty. "You know what they say about all work and no play."

                His eyes were questioning. "It…gets the job done faster?"

                The motion was exquisitely fluid. She was leaning against the desk one moment and the next…their noses were only inches apart. He tensed under her, even if he wasn't aware that he'd reacted at all to the fact that she was now on top of him, the chair protesting to the extra weight. The half-crazy, half-seductive smile had not faltered, even as she laughed at him. One hand was pressed against his chest, the other wrapped around his loosened tie dangling sloppily beneath an open collar—he'd not changed yet from class, although it was quite late. "What's the matter, Bill?" she laughed teasingly. "You're huffing and puffing like you've been swimming the Channel." The insane grin faltering, a bit of the sadness returned to her face, the cynical expression appearing once more. "Why, you're almost shaking like a caught mouse."

                He swallowed hard, trying to slow his breathing, all the while trying to think straight when everything was against such a process. He didn't want to think. Her hand slid from his chest up to his shoulder, then around his neck. The feeling bordered on delirium as she wound her fingers through his hair and he glared at her—almost too harsh of a gesture and not at all what he intended. He was confused—was it a game, or was it real? "What is this, Jude?" His voice was no longer light, no longer playful. "What's happened?"

                She paused for a moment at his words, her hand dropping from his neck, the other falling from his wrinkled tie. For a moment, she remained locked in a closed expression of thought. That moment ended with a decisive glint in her eyes and a determined look. "A change of mind," she stated, or so she thought. He caught a slight upturn of the tone that suggested a question maybe, an indecisiveness for all of the playacting. Perhaps she sensed his skepticism, perhaps not. Her rueful pensiveness did not remain long, though—her hand returned to his neck and her gaze returned to his. 

                "Kiss me, Bill." The words sounded unsure on her lips, but her expression was adamant. She was doing an awful lot of convincing, either for her sake or for his. As he hesitated, a desperate worry filled the space behind the dark pools of her cunning eyes. Her face alone maintained the self-assured confidence of a girl who knows what she wants. But as he continued to study her curious actions instead of jumping to her command, that cold and frightened worry spread. In a moment she had changed from assertive and prowling to the terrified child, afraid of rejection, hiding behind a tough, hard indifference that he'd seen before. "Kiss me, Bill," she repeated, this time almost a plea. Anger laced with fear. 

                She leaned into him and sensed almost no resistance. With a caution that she despised, she pulled him to her, conquering it. She kissed him hard, pressing against him with a dangerous need to be close to someone else. A need to become someone else. A need to forget herself. 

                And for a moment, a sweet moment of reprieve, it worked. He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her back even. But the moment didn't have the lasting solace that it was meant to have and the disappointment tasted nauseatingly bitter. Gripping her arms tightly, Bill fought the enchanting abandon that told him to forget caution, to forget what the best course of action was and to do what he wanted. He pulled away from her, breathing heavily and staring at her as if for the first time. 

                She'd seen that look before and it made her sick and terrified all in one instant. It was the same look Rhys had given her. Her heart was racing as she stared at him, willing him to speak, to say something, but at the same time dreading what he would say. A latent rage that wouldn't abate was the undertone of every emotion she owned at the moment, and every second he stared at her with a shocked disbelief, seeing her as someone else, a vile creature in his friend's body, her rage grew until it replaced any fear. 

                "Say it," she hissed acidly, pushing away from him and standing. "Come on, you know you want to. I won't blame you."

                He stared at her unabashedly, hands out at his side like a man at a mark. His lips were red as was his chin and his nose. "What do you want me to say?"

                "I'm not the person you thought I was! Apparently, I _was_ someone you could trust. Someone you had _faith_ in, but now you realize that person never existed." She hugged her arms around herself to keep from shaking in her anger. "What does it feel like, huh, Bill? I wanted to know what it was like to be you…you know? Just for one night." She threw up her hands, her explanation sounding crazy even to her own ears. "A black pawn can be changed for another black piece…but never for a white pawn." A long pause stretched between them before she spoke again.  "Everything's just so easy for you," she whispered to herself. 

                And he knew. "You're never going to be able to know what it's like to be me, Jude. And seducing me certainly isn't going to make it happen…although we could try it again sometime," he said, glancing up at her to see if he got a laugh or even the beginnings of a smile. Nothing. She looked humiliated, afraid and most of all angry. More angry than he'd ever seen her before. "I'll never know what it's like to be you and it's not fair to tell you that life's just as hard in Bill Weasley's shoes as it is in Jude Elliot's. But there's one thing I can tell you: you've always been the same person to me. And I _do have faith in you." He got up slowly from his chair and reached out for her. She pulled away, her glare wary. "I've never stopped having faith in you. Have you stopped trusting me?" he asked, still trying to put the final pieces in place. _

                She shook her head. "Of course not. You've never given me a reason to." After a great sigh, her shoulders lost some of their tense stiffness and her arms fell to her sides. "I hardly think you could be Bill Weasley without being trustworthy. Goes along with the territory, right?" 

                He shrugged. 

                "Well, you would hardly seem yourself if people didn't trust you almost implicitly, right? Look at the way Dumbledore automatically trusted you with that amulet," she said, gesturing to his chest where she knew the Aten was securely kept suspended around his neck. "People expect you to come through for them." To this he nodded, willing to help her out a bit with her point. "So what am I? All I know is that I would rather be that than whatever I am."

                He put a hand on her shoulder. "You're loyal."

                "I'm not so sure anymore." Her voice was low and very much doubtful. 

                A frown replaced his soothing, pleasant expression. "What do you mean?" he asked, a certain uneasiness unmasked in his tone. 

                "In my life, there have only been two people whom I could count on. Only two people whom I believe deserve my unswerving loyalty. Only two people I can claim have been there for me through anything. Now I'm going to have to betray one for the other."

***

                His door opened again. He sat at his desk, his face stern, glare hard as he beheld her. She did not quail under his stony resolve. Her decision had been made. The two that sat in front of his desk, seemingly for hours and hours, both looking weary and haggard, turned to face her. She did not look at them. 

                "I'm going after him," she said steadily, her eyes fired only with a dull rage, but unwavering. She did not blink. 

                The Headmaster rose reluctantly, a bit unnerved to see she had brought him along. Bill stood at her side, resolute as well, but not as immovable. "We have already discussed this, Miss Elliot. My decision stands." 

                She shrugged coldly. "Then you're decision stands." An icy control killed any feeling that threatened to put any passion in her words. She didn't even have to fight for composure—her resolve was strong enough to stand on. "But I will not be bound by it." 

                "The consequences…" Dumbledore began but was interrupted. 

                "Are not enough to hold me back," she finished. "I am doing no more, nor less than he would do for me…or for you, for that matter. If it kills me to repay him for everything he's done for me, then so be it. But it is a flimsy excuse not to act."

                "Your death is not what is at stake, Miss Elliot, although that may also occur. If you leave this castle, you are risking not only your demise, but all of ours. Voldemort only needs his chance. And you are willing to hand it to him on a silver platter."  
                Her eyes narrowed a bit. "He has the Ankh already. He is all-powerful. I cannot change that by sitting on the sidelines. And I will never become His minion again, guaranteed by my own blood. I would die before I serve Him again." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm going."

                "And I'm going with her." Bill spoke with less force than Jude, but his words commanded the Headmaster's attention just as efficiently, although for different reasons. 

                "I have entrusted you with a very important task, Mr. Weasley. It is not within my power to allow you to go, you must understand. If you choose to follow, you must abandon your promise to me and leave the Aten."

                Bill took Jude's small hand in his, looking from her sternly resolute face to the floor. He could not go back on his word to Dumbledore; it was simply against his nature. Jude knew this and did not press him further. "I will go alone," she said firmly.

                "No," she heard a voice speak that had been silent, "you won't go alone. I'll go with you." Remus was standing now, his expression as he stared at Jude unreadable. Turning to the Headmaster, he added, "It will delay plans here…but I think there may be a chance that this might be pulled off, Headmaster. I don't want to let her go alone." He didn't see the resentful look Jude wore. 

                Dumbledore looked grim. "Very well, it seems as if everyone is determined to divide our tiny forces. Still, the benefit of having Professor Snape back just might outweigh the risks."

                Remus turned a bleak but pleased look from Dumbledore to his friend sitting in front of him, slouched in a chair and avoiding his eyes. He nudged Black with the toe of his shoe and elicited a grumble. Reluctantly, Black lifted his head, his shaggy hair falling away from an ill-humored expression. "What do you say?"

                "I say you're both nutters for wanting to go after the slimy git in the first place." He shifted in his chair not daring to look at Jude for a second. "If you die, what do you expect me to put on your headstone? 'Here lies a crazy bastard who got himself killed trying to save someone who didn't like him in the first place'? Not a great epitaph if you ask me."

                "Sirius," Remus growled moodily, "a yes or a no would suffice."

                The dark figure huffed for a minute before turning his eyes momentarily to Jude. He looked away ruefully. "Yeah sure, count me in. I guess someone has to make sure you two don't end up dead."

                Remus smiled slightly, turning to Jude. She was not smiling. 

                "I work alone. And I certainly don't need a babysitter, so thanks but no thanks," she said icily. 

                Remus frowned. "I know, but I want this done as much as you do. We stand a better chance together, right? And if we stand a better chance then so does he."

                She conceded reluctantly. Bill pulled her attention away from the argument, grabbing her by the arm and turning her to look at him, detaching them somewhat from the group. He pushed something into her hand. She looked from her palm to his face then back, aware that an uncomfortable amount of attention was fixed on her. In her hand was the ring he'd kept from the tomb in Egypt, shinier than she recalled, but beautiful. Ruby and gold—not exactly her favorite colors. She hoped that this wasn't about to turn into an embarrassingly sentimental show. 

                "If you need me…for anything, I want you to get this to me…any way you can, got it? If I get this somehow, I'll know you're in trouble and I'll come. I can track this to the last location it came from." He whispered quietly to her as he closed her hand around it and looked at her with a firm and steady gaze. He was dead serious about all of this hero garbage, but she listened closely despite her inclination to discount him. He leaned closer and whispered, "I'll get to you with the Aten, I promise you that." 

                She nodded, immediately unclasping the chain from her neck and slipping the ring on it. The gold and ruby trinket was fastened around her neck securely along with the compass point pendant and the small gold bracelet and tucked into her shirt. "I'll remember that," she said with the barest of smiles. 

                "Miss Elliot," the Headmaster called, commanding her attention, "was there something you wished to tell me earlier?"

                Impulsively, Jude balled her fist around the violently red burn on her palm, remembering with a cold tension Trelawney's baffling words. When she looked up at the Headmaster, she was frigid and unfeeling. "Nothing, Professor."

                Bill, placing both hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him and stared at her for a moment that seemed like an eternity. "Will you do me a favor and take care out there?"

                She nodded blandly. "And you do me a favor? Take care…of my dog for me." She squeezed his hand before dropping it unceremoniously and disappearing through the door.

Author's Note: Whew! You don't know how agonizing this chapter has been! And nothing *really* important even happened (well, relatively speaking). Three weeks and it's finally done. Sorry that it has taken me past my upload date to finish this, but real life beckoned—exam week was complete hell on earth, but it's over now. My goal to have this story completed before June 21 is looking bleaker and bleaker. I'll still try my hardest though to get this done, even though I'm starting summer semester next week and it's going to be rough going. I hope I won't let anyone down in the quality of the story or the frequency of updates! But integrity means more to me than making my deadline of June 21. 

Roll Call: **Black Dragon** (I'm glad you don't want to know whether Bill dies or not. He remains pretty integral, regardless. I hope this chapter put a lot of questions to rest and gave you a bit more to puzzle out where he's concerned. And I put Harry in just for you! Personally, I loved writing that bit.), **Emjay (Do I keep shooting out chapters? Weekly is a bit frequent, I guess, but it keeps me to a schedule and I'm pretty good at following it. Don't look for chapters as frequently, though—I'll do what I can.), **Lady Cinnibar** (Lara Croft, huh? I guess there is a bit of a strong resemblance there. I'm pretty flattered! Croft is seriously kick-ass.), ****Mags (I'm glad that you aren't going to lose interest in this story any time soon…because I have roughly 15 more chapters until the end. And thank you for your encouragement through almost the entire story!). **Minerva of Tortall** (I hope you liked the Bill/Jude interaction in this chapter. I had originally written that part out, not feeling that it was pertinent enough even though the scene kept sticking in my head every time I heard that Matchbox Twenty song. My sister read this completed chapter and told me to write the scene back in…and I'm generally pleased with the outcome.). Next chapter: On to the continent for some Death Eater hunting. **


	49. Where Angels Fear To Tread

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. The title of this chapter comes from the title of a book by E. M. Forster, _Where Angels Fear To Tread._

Chapter Forty-Nine:  Where Angels Fear To Tread

_'And now we're grown up orphans   
That never knew their names   
We don't belong to no one   
That's a shame   
But if you could hide beside me   
Maybe for a while   
And I won't tell no one your name'_

_Goo Goo Dolls, Name_

                "And that one?"  he asked, poking a finger at the glowing screen. "What happens if you click that one?"

                Jude sighed wearily and swatted Black's finger away. "It's the back button. Figure it out." She took an impatient puff of the cigarette she had just lit: this scene had already played out dozens of times and her patience was running low, as was her attention. She'd spent four hours already at the computer browsing tourist sites, searching for a golden thread that would tug at a memory. Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she narrowed her eyes at the screen. It hadn't taken her nearly as long as she thought it would have to re-familiarize herself with the Internet—she hadn't had to venture into cyberspace for three years and was surprised how much it had changed. She was glad for it and hoped for a second that it would speed along the process of finding a needle in a haystack…or a church in the Alps. 

                Browsing through numerous tourist travel sites and historical association web pages, she was becoming increasingly dismayed and irritated. They'd searched the thick woods of the Black Forest thoroughly before abandoning Germany. Jude felt almost certain that she knew where Voldemort had gone, but her luck failed her once again—Barcelona offered little more than an inspirational view. A view, however that led her to the bustling beauty and sophistication of posh Lucerne. 

                Jude was struck by Draco's frankness in their last meeting and felt a little remorse monopolizing on the information she'd gotten from him. But, she figured, it was in everyone's best interest if she took advantage of it—even his. Opportunistic as she was, she'd seized on the bits of information like fishes dangled in front of a cat's nose. Lucius lost most of his fortune to his son, but key pieces of real estate remained to him: his home in Barcelona, consequently unoccupied, his wife's penthouse here in this city, too risky with Ministry officials and legal persons lurking around after her death, and an estate in the Swiss countryside. 

                The view that had put it all in place for her, the picturesque landscape beyond the sunny villa in Barcelona, was of sloping hills and, nestled in the valley, a quaint church surrounded by tidy houses. That was how she came to be pecking away at a computer in an uptight net café in the heart of Lucerne. 

                "If you'd tell us exactly what it is you're looking for," Remus intoned morosely, "then we could help you. Sirius and I could always poke around the Ministry," he added helpfully, "and see what we can find there." Balancing his chair on two legs, he glared at her sideways. He was tense and bored with inaction, which was making him ill tempered and impatient. 

                Jude didn't look away from the screen. "I never asked you to come." She spoke quietly, almost as if she didn't want to be heard. 

                Black stared at her with his cold, dark eyes and said nothing as he twirled a pencil idly between his fingers. His eyes slid sideways to Remus as Jude spoke, his face betraying nothing. Remus frowned. "Well, here we are," he said blandly. "There's no sense in letting us sit around while you have all the fun." 

                With a mischievous grin, Black tapped the screen with his pencil. "And what about this?" he asked with no real interest at all. He had made a steady effort for the past four hours to wear her down and, completely to her credit, she only now began to bend. Remus fared much worse, he saw. It was his idea to make an informal search of the Ministry to see what they could uncover there, but Jude had shot down the idea as futile and dangerous. She would rather them do nothing and he was beginning to suspect that it had nothing to do with safety. She was affirming her leadership, calling the shots and not backing down. But she was a loner—that much he understood now. She was crap at leadership…and not much better at following. 

                With one swift motion—Black hardly saw it—Jude grabbed the pencil and snapped it with one hand. She was huffing short, agitated breaths and glaring at him with open contempt. "Keep it up," she growled in warning and tossed the pencil onto the table in front of him as an example of what could happen. 

                Black leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table, black boots shedding dirt on her notes. He had cultivated a very convincing Muggle persona, going for the irreverent biker of sorts, his hair still wild as ever only added to his intimidating look—any Muggle would believe this man capable of what he'd been convicted of in the wizarding world. The only thing that made him look out of place was his company—a bookish sort of chap and a short girl that continuously barked orders. He grinned, understanding the oddity of it. "I won't quit. You know it and I know it. Let us go check the Ministry for whatever it is you're looking for."

                Jude turned to her brother as if seeking an ally, but found none. "He'll just keep doing it until you agree," he said, matter-of-fact. 

                Her shoulders fell a bit. "This is Lucius Malfoy we're talking about here," she reminded them skeptically, taking another nervous puff on the cigarette and ignoring her brother's disapproving glare. "The Ministry is probably in his pocket, just as it is in England. It's too risky…any question we ask will give us away."

                Black made a derisive noise. "You don't think we know that? But I have ways around it." He was casually examining his fingernails. 

                Raising her eyebrows in challenge, she studied him. "Ways around that? And what ways would those be? Mind I don't want to have to bail your ass out of jail." 

                He glanced over his shoulder and winked at a woman he caught staring. The woman blushed and looked away quickly. "I have _ways_," he stated confidently. Jude merely shook her head and sighed like a martyr. Indeed, his mother should have been given sainthood for putting up with him. 

                "Can you keep him in check?" she asked Remus, unsure if she was making the right decision. 

                He nodded. "Of course I can…for the most part." 

                "If they start getting nosy, asking too many questions, or seeming a bit too interested in you or why you're there then get out. Don't use Malfoy's name. Don't speak English if you can help it…" she continued with her list of orders. 

                "Always say 'please' and 'thank you'," Black chimed in, a mock-helpful tone to his voice that turned Jude's expression sour. 

                "Jude," Remus said in an attempt to put her at ease, "we know what to do, don't worry."

                "And are you going to tell us what it is we seek so inconspicuously?" Black interrupted Remus, getting straight to the point. 

                Jude took a deep breath. "Find out how many large estates are owned by foreigners. I'm talking big, and somewhere out of the way. If I can narrow it down to a certain area, it would cut the search down considerably." 

                "This chapel you're trying to find…is it on the estate?" Remus asked cautiously, knowing that she was loath to talk about how she knew where to look for their prey. "And you remembered seeing it? I only ask because it is quite likely that there are quite a few places that fit this criteria…"

                "Yeah," she said quietly, "a fairly distinctive, little country chapel. I could see it from the east windows, where I used to watch the goats play on the cliffs. With luck, the view won't have changed much." She turned back to the screen and continued her tireless search through the depths of information that stretched on before her. "It's the only landmark I can think of to go by…the only one I can remember, actually."

Black was already headed to the door. Remus nodded once briefly, wishing to say more, but unwilling to push it, and followed his friend. After she heard them leave, her shoulders sagged a little as she released a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was still a difficult proposition to let them into the dusty rooms of her past filled with knowledge she was only now grateful she had, but all the same, still wishing that she could just sweep it all under the rugs and shut up the rooms for good.

                Forty minutes later, Jude was frowning at a very unimpressive list—very unimpressive. The list she'd spent almost five hours on boasted only three names: Aletch-Gebeit, Spatzbergendorf, and Appenzell. Her features darkened as she tucked the pencil behind her ear and glared at the name, willing just one to jump out at her. Pronouncing the strong consonants that peppered the German language, none however seemed promising—none pecked at that memory that flitted like an elusive sparrow in the dense thicket she felt her tangled mind to be. With a sharp and frustrated motion, she crushed the butt of a cigarette into the ashtray alongside its equally expended comrades.

                None of this had been as easy as she'd thought it would be. Her memories no longer seemed the clear photographs, but blurred and hazy visions and specters. She said the names of the small mountain villages again. Appenzell was in the east, near Liechtenstein. Spatzbergendorf in the mountains of the southwest, and Aletch-Gebeit…that was in the south, in the Valais region. A great sigh escaped her at the thought that, with little else to go on, these three cities on opposite sides of the country would have to be checked out. All seemed as likely as the next. All had offered some tempting similarities to the place she sought, but not a single mention of that strange little chapel masquerading as an Alpine cathedral had confirmed any one as such. She tossed the paper on the table and put her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palms, exhausted. 

                "Any luck?" 

                The voice startled her. She sat up straight and turned in her chair. "Back so soon?" She sought to keep the 'I told you so' tone in check, but she knew that his short absence meant only one thing. 

                Black picked up the napkin lined with Jude's agitated handwriting and raised an eyebrow. "This is what you came up with?" he said, ignoring her. 

                Jude humphed incredulously but without much zest as she continued to look over her shoulder at the door in which he'd entered. "It's more than you got, I see." Her eyes slid from the door to the man puzzling over the words she'd scribbled. "Where's Remus?"

                "Hmm?" he asked, still frowning at the notes. "Oh, he was lookout, making sure we weren't followed and all that. He should be here soon." 

                Jude nodded. "Well, glad to know that you two aren't completely careless," she said tersely as she turned her attention to the screen again, no longer looking but eager for a distraction. "I gather you didn't find much of anything at the Ministry…" A pause, and a little moment of triumph lit a small, dim smile on her cheerless face. It felt good to be right for once, she mused. Then she heard a slap of papers hitting the table in front of her. The self-satisfied smirk died in an instant, replaced by pale astonishment. "How did you get this?" Jude asked, quickly thumbing through the pages. 

                "I told you I have ways," he said with self-congratulation. 

                "I can't believe this!" Her eyes devoured the information greedily. "What did you promise her you would…ugh, never mind. I don't want to know…"

                He chuckled. "What matters is that she thinks I'm a tourist who was desperately trying to find the chapel where my dad married his sweetheart. She was charmed…and very eager to help. Told her that the place belonged to one L. M. and she got me a list. There are five. And one happens to be here on your list."

                Jude was nodding. "Spatzbergendorf." She glanced back down at the Ministry's list and back up at him. "Do you think this is it? He's there?"

                Black shrugged. "Do you think it is?" 

                Jude's expression darkened for a moment. "Maybe," she uttered quietly. "But I guess it's really all we've got." Pushing her chair away from the table, she walked quickly to the door, Black following closely. "Only one way I know of finding out for sure."

                As soon as she stepped out into the fading sunlight, into the biting early December air, she saw Remus. "Anyone following?" she asked and he shook his head.

                "Got a lead?" he asked in reply.

                "As good as we're going to get," she answered a bit more cheerfully. And she had to admit—she was thankful for their help even though she wasn't about to openly thank them. Shoving her hands deeper in her pockets, she strode quickly down the street. By nightfall, she expected to be high in the mountains of the Lake Geneva area and closer on the heels of her prey than she'd been in weeks. 

***

                _She stood as surely as possible on wobbly legs, clutching at the cold bars in front of her. Only a little view of the cell beyond was permitted through this tiny, barred window. Another window, on the other side of the cell, high in the age-darkened stone wall allowed a spill of moonlight to reach the bleak floor, a square of hazy light that forced the ghostly shadows to retreat, leaving the only real haunt to remain. _

_                Seated on the ground, feet tucked under her, rocking back and forth on the hard stone was the very same girl, dark hair shading her face, but still the same girl. The sobs echoed in the chamber, off of the cold, unfeeling, unmerciful stone, sending back a hollow sound to the occupant and the voyeur. Jude watched, waiting breathlessly for the girl to turn to her once more and pronounce her piercing judgment. But the girl did not look up, just rocked and sobbed silently, almost a sorrowful but diligent chant. _

_                The very presence of a child in a place such as this was enough to shake the bastions of her strong fortitude. A being so young huddled alone in a waiting room…waiting for an end. Jude watched, anticipating the girl, hoping for her to turn her face to the small portal in the door, to face her and repeat the words she'd said before. Her breath caught in her chest as she saw the ebony silken threads of the child's hair slide away, revealing the smooth, unmarked features of the young, now invested with such pain and torment that requires more years that hers to acquire. The look leached any remaining hope away as icy waters steal away warmth. _

_                "Are the scales balanced?" was the queer token the hollow voice handed her. _

_                Jude frowned, her knuckles having faded to white with the intense grip, her face having paled with effort, shock…and fear at this statement. She couldn't understand what its portents were, but she did identify the fear as cutting deeper and more keenly than any fear she could remember. _

_                 Jude gathered her courage and attempted to speak to the occupant of the cell—a feat she had not dared before. "I…I don't understand you," she ventured to speak to the specter-child. "Tell me plainly, Padma. I can't help you if you speak in riddles…"_

_                To her surprise the girl seemed to truly note her presence. A connection seemed to spring across the desolate spaces, no barrier hindering it, no door or iron bar denying it. Jude felt the sharp glare penetrate to her core, as if the girl was looking through her. _

_                "You cannot help us," the dark haired girl pronounced with resounding sadness and resignation. "Your choice has been made: one life was worth the others. And it is your burden to carry…thirty pieces of silver and may you feel every bit of their weight."_

_                Jude tried to swallow, but she could not. Breathing felt impossible and the sound of her own heart in her ears would have been deafening had not the young girl's words cut the din and echoed in her mind. "What does this mean?" she yelled frantically into the cell, tearing at the bars with her thin, incapable hands as if they were invested with Sampson's strength. They did not move and neither did the girl. _

_                "It means," she intoned without feeling, "that what was precious to you was worth more than what was precious to me." In a slow, agonizing motion, the girl turned to face Jude fully, her black eyes glistening wildly in the dark, the only spark in the vast, drear space. "Yet both sacrifices are demanded. Both will be paid." _

_                "What does it mean?" Jude demanded fervently, attempting vainly to wrest the door from its iron hinges, rattling the wood that had for centuries sealed the fates of countless souls, shutting out hope. _

_                "In blood." The girl's dark eyes held hers for a moment, a chilling moment, before they slid closed behind the veil of her dark lashes, then the curtain of her jet hair. Again she resumed her penitent rocking, chanting her vigilant, sorrowful sobs. _

_                Jude could not make out one clear thought or feeling in her own muddled mess of a mind. She felt disconnected, as if she had been watching from above, unattached to any of the revelations occurring below. Only the fear she felt anchored her to the angry and desolated woman who stood wringing her hands red and bloodied on the iron bars that separated her from understanding. And anger grew, intense and hot as steel after the forger's fire. _

_                This was her sphinx? This little girl, one of her best students, a shade in a dream, bearing a warning? But she would heed the words this time, calculating carefully her senses before she acted. However, she could not gather the thin strands of what it was she had been warned of…_

_                Frustration, self-abasement and the feeling of inadequacy cooled the heated anger like water after the hammer's work had ceased. She turned her back to the small penitent in the cell chanting her benedictions to anyone who would hear her and faced the darkened expanse beyond. Gritting her teeth, she took a tentative step forward. Whatever it was that she had done wrong, she could fix it; it was just a matter of will. _

_                "I can fix this," she said aloud, into the cavernous unknown of the world of stone, if only to rally her strength and what remained of her spirit. She immediately paused and strained to listen. A soft chuckle, full of irony and sadness and mocking, could be heard among the slowly fading sobs of her enigma-bearer. Another person lay beyond the darkened void? It seemed as likely as unlikely. She tried to peer through the blackness, but nothing shone in the deep shade of nothingness. She paused, did not take a breath until she was sure where the sound emanated from. Behind her, she finally realized, was the direction in which she should struggle. _

_                Returning to the bars, now flecked with her own blood, mingled with innumerable others' in deranged or despairing hopelessness, she peered once again into the cell lit by the pearly moonlight. And what she saw startled her momentarily. The occupant of the cell was standing, facing the black, star-flecked sky that at once seemed so near and yet impossibly remote, out of reach. The light spilling over this figure showed every opposite of the former occupant, save age. A changeling? Jude puzzled momentarily as she watched the figure laugh morosely, hands in his pockets, ruefully staring beyond his captivity. _

_                Believing it to be the very same spirit, only in another form, she repeated again, firmly, "I will fix this!"_

_                The figure shook his head. "You don't listen well, do you, Elliot?" The voice froze her. "She already said that you can't. It's been decided."_

_                Gathering her very last reserve of self-possession, she asked, "By whom?"_

_                The figure shrugged carelessly, elegantly…a very familiar gesture. "Fate," he said blandly, still staring up at the cold stars, "__Providence__." Turning his back to the moonlight, the pale glow illuminated his light hair and fine features. "Destiny, if you believe in that sort of thing."_

_                Recognition, instilled when she heard his voice, confirmed on beholding his face, made her bold, defiant almost. "I don't!"_

_                "Well," he said with a glance filled with irony and regret, turning back to the window, "I guess that just leaves us accountable for the choices we make." He laughed stoically once more and fell silent. "Damn shame then, if there's no one else to blame them on." _

_                "What does that mean?" she asked, but the figure remained silent. "Draco!" she called to him, pleading._

_                One single glance was offered over his shoulder. "It means I chose my lot—after today, I probably won't want to own it. But well…" He turned back to the moonlight, hands still carelessly shoved into his pockets. "Consequently, you chose yours. Get used to the feel of blood on your hands."_

                Sweating and panting, she found herself sitting in a chair, feet propped up on a wooden table. The room was dark and she hadn't a clue as to where she was. With a sick, sinking feeling, she looked around frantically for any sign of iron or stone. With relief, she found none. The sound of steady breathing reminded her where she was and moonlight, that very same milky, hazy light spilling through closed drapes, gave her the solid understanding that she no longer dreamt. This was real.

                Rising as quietly as she could from the chair, feeling every muscle cramped and stiff, she padded silently to the tiny hotel bathroom and closed the door gently. Biting her lip she listened for any sign of stirring from outside. Black still lay asleep in the bed, his arm flung over his face, feet hanging off of the end. The small sofa was unoccupied, of course. It hadn't surprised her much. 

                Hands still shaking, she clenched them in sedated rage at herself. A dream, that's all it had been. Nothing that warranted this much excitement and anxiety. And if she was willing to admit, fear—which she wasn't willing to admit. The reflection in the mirror had changed—changed, but not improved. She looked worse, still as much as herself as she'd always been, but more worn, sharper, more calloused. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a while before she allowed it to escape. She turned on the tap. 

                Water splashed into the sink, freezing her fingertips. The words from the dream still echoed in her ears: get used to the feel of blood on your hands. She scrubbed them hard, until they were red. Filling her palms, she rubbed her face with the frigid water, soothing against her dry, burning eyes. She glanced up, and the reflection staring back had not changed. Hair dripped in front of the wearied and lusterless eyes, across the pale, lined forehead, against the harsh line of her jaw. Twisting the tap, the water ceased its noisy flow, and she studied the mirror. With little ceremony and no regrets, she went to work. 

                Ten minutes was enough time to see her shoulder-length bob reduced to a cap of short spikes and ridges, the sink was now littered with long clumps of sandy, brown-blond hair. The sight should have made her sad or regretful, anything but relieved. Yet she had felt a weight rise a bit from her shoulders—she no longer felt conspicuous. Certainly the short, choppy hair would attract more of a notice, but it was very much the reversal of her plain-Jane façade that had already worn thin. This at least was not as familiar. More of a hideout. 

                Running a hand through her hair, she gave a small smile. Instant rebel youth, a handy deflector of pert questions and a mask for any eccentricity she committed in the Muggle world. She wished it was only so easy to effect real change. She still felt like the same person…her hands still felt unclean. She scooped the sheared locks into the wastebasket just as a knock sounded softly against the door.

                The door opened just a crack. She stuck her fingers through the opening and wrenched the door open wide. "What?" she questioned tersely. 

                Black just stared at her. "You're awake," he grumbled. 

                Brushing the hair from her t-shirt, she nodded. "Couldn't sleep."

                "Yeah," Black said gravely, "I heard."

                She stopped what she was doing and took a hard look at him. His meaning was not missed. She knew it was too much to hope that she had not woken anyone when she was startled out of her own sleep. "Sorry to wake you," she apologized acidly. 

                He reached out and absently brushed some hair from her shoulder. "Nice job, very chic. Remus will hate it." 

                She huffed an incredulous and sarcastic chuckle. "Noticed that he isn't around." She resumed her chore. Black leaned lazily against the door and watched her closely. "He tells you everything, right?" she resumed as she set the wastebasket back on the floor a bit roughly. 

                "Pretty much."

                "Well, then," she continued in a short-tempered tone he recognized well, "why don't you give me a hand here and tell me what it is that I've done wrong this time?" 

                He frowned. "Look, he's just staying out of the way. Figured that's what you want, right?" He took a seat on the cold floor, back still to the door as she leaned against the sink opposite him. "But he can't stay still for long, Jude. You've got to let him in, tell him what he can do."

                "What's he up to now?" she asked, more curious than indignant or uneasy that he would harm her plans, but Black took it to mean disapproval. 

                "He's careful, okay. There's no one I'd rather trust my life with. Helped me out of a few scrapes when I least expected," he said quietly, but with sharpness. "You don't trust us, and I'm fine with that. But it's killing him and you just won't see that."

                "I do trust you," Jude said a bit loudly, enflamed by the accusation. "If I didn't, you wouldn't even be here."

                "I'd be here because of him, not you. He came even though he knew you'd resent him for it because for some strange reason he loves you. And you're so selfish, all the thanks he can expect is to have everything thrown back in his face."

                She glared silently, her gray eyes forcing him to look away. "I know I haven't been the easiest person to get along with and that you don't want to be here in the first place. However, I can't let anything get in the way of what I have to do."  
                He smiled ruefully. "Always about you, isn't it?"

                "What?" she asked bitterly.

                "You're one of the most selfish people I know!" he snapped back at her. "You only think of yourself, you're like a closed book even to those you're supposed to care about, and when someone calls you on it, of course it isn't you're fault."

                "This isn't my fault," she countered fiercely. "How can you blame me for being selfish when there's only ever been myself to look after? I've only ever had to think about me. I've had to take care of me." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And it's a bit late to change."

                "Sure, pull that shtick. It's always worked for you before," he said blandly, as if his point had made itself clear without necessitating any further aid from him. 

                She gaped, open-mouthed. "And what _shtick_ would that be?" 

He laughed. "The 'poor little orphan deal.' It's your trump card and you've certainly used it to your advantage, haven't you?"

She said nothing in response, hardly looking amused. "If you call it an advantage, then I feel truly sorry for you, Black," she finally offered after a long silence, a sad, solemn look momentarily replacing her anger. "And I'm not selfish. I'll prove it." She spread her arms out wide to each side and smiled sarcastically. "Go ahead, Black, ask me anything you want to know. I'm an open book."

                He gave her a judicious glance, discriminating and searching. "What was your dream about?"

                Her look turned immediately sour. She shook her head. "No." Biting her lip, she fought the urge to just spill it and get it over with. To tell someone just might be the one thing to help her figure this out. But it was so immensely telling and personal—it would have been easier to wrench her chest open and examine her heart or her lungs. "I can't tell you that." 

                He laughed incredulously. "Selfish," he repeated lightly. "Everything has to be born by you and you alone. You don't trust anyone."

                She was still glaring fiercely. "You're an unbelievable asshole, Black." She stepped over his legs and kicked him hard as she left the bathroom. In mid-step, her retreat was halted, however, by a site she didn't expect. Remus was standing in the room, removing a snow-flecked coat. 

                "You two at it again?" he asked, glancing momentarily at her, then at Black who stood behind her. "You fight like cats and dogs."

                Jude said nothing, indeed, her anger hardly allowed her to breathe. The feeling would not have been half so stifling had not Black's words hit pretty near the truth of the matter. She grabbed the thick blanket that hung halfway off of the bed and stomped to the window. Flinging it open, she left only a few parting words. "Goodnight, gentlemen. I will be on the roof if you need me. Chances are," she said, looking over her shoulder pointedly at Black, "_I_ won't be needing _you_, seeing as how I'm such a selfish bitch." The window shut with a loud clack. 

                Remus turned from the window, to his friend. "Why did she cut all of her hair off?" he asked, bewildered by the entire scene that had transpired before him and that being the first question he was able to articulate. 

                "Disguise," was Black's short and to the point answer.

                "Ah," Remus said, understanding at least a bit of what had happened when he was gone, "it goes great with the attitude." He threw his coat over the chair Jude had recently vacated and sat down. "I took a bit of a stroll up the mountain, to the town. It's small, not many people, so it will probably be easy to tell the difference between harmless villager and Death Eater. There's a pub in the town," he continued to explain while Sirius dropped back onto the bed, exhausted. "Saw a few shady people come out, no doubt it's a place they frequent. We should try and follow one of those chaps tomorrow night. Maybe they'll lead us to the castle."

                Black sighed. "Wouldn't it save us the trouble if we just walked up to the front door and knocked?"

                "By all means, Sirius," Remus allowed as he rubbed a hand across his eyes, "knock on the front door…if you can find it, that is."

                "Unplottable?"

                Remus nodded. 

                "What do you reckon she'll have to say about that?" Sirius asked, watching his friend closely.

                He sighed heavily. "Frankly," he said wearily, "I'm too tired to even think about that right now, mate."

***

                Sharp wind in the upper stories of heaven rushed a few puffy clouds across the dark sky. Jude looked up for only a moment at the clear, moonless dome. Taking a deep breath, she tried to breathe in some of the night's serenity to calm her nerves. When she turned her face away from the sky and back to her companions, she felt a bit more at ease. 

                "So," she asked in a neutral tone, "what's the plan?" She hugged her arms around her, pulling her coat tight. Leaning against a tree, she looked back and forth between the two. The dark canopy of firs covered part of the sky and sheltered them from sight of the road, at the end of which stood, nestled among the other quaint buildings of the little village, the pub that was supposedly the target. Its warm, yellow lights shown through small windows onto the white, gleaming snow. 

                "Barkeeper's probably in on it," Sirius reminded them. 

                Remus nodded. "Someone will be on the lookout for any snoops there and will most likely slip out as soon as you two walk in. I'll watch the door and follow him." He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Hopefully he'll lead me right to the bloody gates. If I can get there, I'll be able to see the place."

                "Why you?" Jude asked pointedly, trying to keep the harsh, accusing tone to a minimum. "Do you have the monopoly on being sneaky?"

                Remus was quiet for a moment, examining his shoes in the snow. When he looked up, his expression was less sharp than she would have expected for all of the crap she'd given him lately. "The barkeeper's a man," he said equably. "You draw that lot by default."

                "Okay," she said reasonably, "So why doesn't Black do it? I'm sure he could charm anybody. Or why doesn't he go with you?"

                Sirius made an impatient noise and shook his head. "Jude, he's careful and he's quiet. Frankly, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather hand the job to."

                "And you're not going into that place by yourself. Sirius goes with you." Remus did not leave room for argument.

                Jude buried her chin in the collar of her coat and looked at the ground, resigned and trying to fight off indignation. She expelled a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks as she did so in a pensive manner. She wanted to warn him to be careful, to say something that would make everything okay again, but all she could do was nod. 

                "It's settled then," he said with a modicum of cheer. 

                "Come on," Sirius said to Jude, "that's our cue." He led her away from the clearing among the little fir trees. 

                Stopping, she suddenly turned back to Remus. "There will probably be wards, so…"

                Sirius put an arm around her shoulders and reassured her quietly that he knew what to do. They walked the short distance to the pub, leaving their friend behind in the woods alone. Jude was grateful when the sound of their feet crunching in the snow stopped and they stood on the solid ground of the little stoop. He opened the door and ushered her in to the warm light. She glanced around and took in the layout of the place, the numbers of people and where they were positioned. 

                "Okay," she said, feigning casualness, "what do we need to know from this guy?" 

                "Anything you can get from him without sounding suspicious," he said as he took her coat, shaking off the snow. "Really, his part is just physical. If I know this scene well enough, he'll signal somehow to one of these questionable blokes." He motioned over his shoulder to three men clustered around a small table, all three staring in their direction. "Recognize any of them?" 

                She shook her head lightly and smiled as if he'd said something amusing. "Not a one." Leaving him to his own devices, she walked up to the bar. She was surprised to notice that the bartender was a young guy, probably a few years over her own age and quite charming in appearance. She gave him a friendly grin as she leaned on the scrubbed wooden bar. 

                "Guten Abend," she offered in greeting. She removed a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and removed one, placing it between her lips. 

                He chuckled and returned her greeting. "Guten Abend, Madam Engländerin." He produced a lighter and offered to light it. His manner was not suspicious in the least, and indeed Jude found him entertaining enough. She and Rhys would have found him delightful once upon a time. Exiling the thought of Rhys immediately, she forced herself to maintain her cheery aspect.

                "So," she said, nodding, "you've found me out."

                "Your accent betrayed you. Where are you from in England?" he asked, setting the highball glass he was polishing upside down on the bar next to her. 

                She pretended to coyly ponder whether or not to give him any more secrets and glanced over her shoulder. The upended glass was a signal, alright. She watched two men rise from their seats by the door, nodding once in the bartender's direction and exit the snug pub. She also noted Sirius' eyes follow the two as they made their escape. 

                Turning back to the man in front of her, she answered. "Boston," she lied, "I'm American…or at least I have been for these last eight years." She tapped her fingers on the bar. "And you? Your German had a bit of a telling accent, too. You from England? Originally, I mean?"

                He nodded with a slow smile, rakishly charming. "Liverpool, born and raised, but my family is from here. Guess after years away from it, I missed home."

                She sighed a deeply empathetic sigh. "Nice to be able to go back home, huh?" she asked, with a bit more of a labored American accent.

                "Yeah," he answered. "And what brings you here, so far away from Boston?"

                With a bit of careless whimsy, she pretended excitement and answered, "The mountains—it's quite beautiful here."

                "You climb?" he asked and as she nodded he took her hand in his and turned it palm up. It bore enough calluses from her Egyptian escapades with Bill to convince him that she was not lying.

                "Do you climb?" she asked in return. 

                "Haven't in years," he answered her blandly. "It's a bit cold now to do much climbing here, though. I'm afraid you've missed the season."

                "I know," she responded coolly, with feigned intelligence. "But I was planning a trip for next summer and there is an excellent rock face, just up there on the Spatzberg." She nodded over her shoulder in the direction of the little chapel and the cliffs beyond. "That area's privately owned, though. I was hoping to get in touch with the owner to get the required permission and all that. But you Swiss are rather fond of your secrets. I can't find the name of the bloke anywhere." She allowed a bit of her English accent to pervade the American façade. 

                "Aye," he answered sagely, "you won't find out his name. No one 'round here knows him. Best if you just find yourself another rock face to climb."

                "That's a shame," she said morosely as she stared out the small window at the mountain face in question. He was purposely keeping her away from that place. He might not have suspected her any longer, but it was certain that he didn't want anyone poking around here. "I guess I will have to find another. But Switzerland is full of them, I'm sure it will be no problem."

                "No problem at all," he chimed in helpfully. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

                She gave him a charming smile. "Two gins on the rocks," she said with a glance over her shoulder at Sirius and added, "better make mine a double."

                "Who's the friend?" he asked as he poured, giving her a significant glance.

                She sighed and shook her head. "Someone it's taken eight years and counting to get rid of."

                "Well," he offered with alacrity as he handed her the drinks, "good luck, Boston."

                "Cheers, Liverpool," she called over her shoulder as she retreated, "and thanks."

                Taking a seat across from Sirius, she handed him a glass of clear liquid. 

                "Well," Sirius asked, "what did you find out?"

                She took a long drink, feeling some of the tension slide from her shoulders. "Nothing," she said dully, "and everything. This is definitely the place. He doesn't want us poking around." She sat back in her chair, taking a long puff of her cigarette and looked pointedly at Sirius. "I told him we were rock climbers scoping out a bit of mountain."

                "I bet that's not all you told him," he said. "You were talking to him for quite a while."

                "Was I?" she asked vaguely.

                "You seemed to be enjoying it."

                She huffed an agitated breath. "Jesus, Black. It's called acting."

                "Acting, flirting," he said with a provoking grin, "it's all the same to me." He watched her grow more and more frustrated as he continued, amused as she ran the fine silver chain over her lips absently and glaring at him. He noticed the sparkle of gold and recognized the ring she'd been handed by her friend, supposedly when no one was looking. Yet he'd seen it and he smiled even wider. "I wonder what your buddy Bill Weaslely would think about your "acting" skills."

                "I was just doing what you told me to do," she snapped acidly at him. "So did you get a good look at the guys who sneaked out a few minutes ago?"

                "Yeah," he said, running a finger around the rim of his glass, "goons, just as we suspected."

                "Well, now what? Do we sit and wait?" 

                He nodded solemnly, staring at the table. "Don't worry. It shouldn't take him very long to get there and back."

                "I'm not worried," she said quickly. 

                He looked up discerningly from the table. She couldn't hold his glare. "You're not? Had me fooled then."

                She dropped the chain she was playing with idly, the heavy ring Bill gave her falling down the length of the chain along with the silver charm and gold trinket. "You don't think very highly of me, do you?" she asked abruptly. "You think I only care if he screws this up?"

                He shook his head wearily. "I don't think that. You're worried for him—you're a good sister. Even if you are a bad friend."

                She examined him for a moment. "Being a good friend has no place in this. I must be cautious…I don't even want to think about what could happen if this all goes badly."

                "It won't go badly."

                She looked doubtful. "I don't know that. He could be dead now for all I know."

                "Snape?" Black asked with a bit of bite. 

                "I know you have no interest in this beyond my brother and he is only involved because of me, so I don't expect you to understand…"

                "Then tell me." 

                She looked at him distrustfully. "I should be doing this on my own. You don't owe me anything…you're not loyal to me….so why are you here?"

                He nodded. "Because you murdered my best friend, I should abandon any shred of principle? I can't do the right thing because I don't owe you?" His eyes rested for some time on the table between them. "That's really all it is to you, isn't it? The number of debts you owe people is what keeps you at it."

                Jude thought for a moment and then nodded morosely. "The right thing? What is that, Black?"

                "If you have to ask, then I can't tell you. You'll find out for yourself some day. Hopefully it won't take twelve years in Azkaban to find out." A strange hollowness replaced the casual tone in his voice. 

                "Maybe it will only take a couple of months," she said with a grin and he smiled. "Black, do you know why Aurors like yourselves never had partners in the field."

                "Because," he answered simply, "it adds one more anxiety to a tense situation. It's policy."

                She nodded pointedly. "That's why I have to do this on my own. He worries about me too much. I can't have him watching his own back as well as mine. Same goes for me…I can't do what I have to do if I'm worried about getting him…or you into trouble."

                An understanding passed between them, Jude felt. "And you want me to do what?" Black asked significantly, as if begging her for instruction. He wanted to obey but he didn't see any way to help her.

                "I'm going in there alone…it's the best way…"  
                "I don't see how you have an advantage over either of us. You are no longer an Animagus and you're still rather recognizable."  
                "Correction," Jude countered, "I am no longer a cat. I never said that I was no longer an Animagus."

                "Okay, then," he resumed, "so you do have an advantage. I still don't see why you are determined to go at this by yourself."

                "Sirius," she said with feeling, "I know there's more between you two and Snape, I don't know all of the details, but I know it's something big. Don't risk your life for someone you couldn't give a damn about."

                "Can I give you the same advice?" he asked bitterly.

                "No," she said mildly. "I owe him this much, you and Remus don't. And I couldn't bear to feel responsible if anything happened because of this…"

                "Okay, okay," he relented, "tell me what to do."

                "Keep Remus away tonight. He will want to go in with me. I can't risk it." She looked at him discerningly. "Think of something, but keep him with you." She reached for the sharp point of the silver charm that hung from the silver chain. She poked it mercilessly into her palm, a small spot of blood springing up from under it, deep red against her pale skin. "Give me your hand," she commanded without ceremony. 

                He looked at her skeptically. "Come on, Jude. We're not ten years old." He reached his hand across the table to her anyway. "You know, this is how diseases spread."

                She laughed as she poked his hand with the sharp metal. "The only disease that could survive my blood is alcoholism." She dropped the bloodstained point and clasped his hand with hers. "Besides, we can't really use magic in here. So it's this or nothing."

"I would've preferred nothing," he said with a wry smile, a friendly gesture that she didn't expect, seeing as how she felt she'd been rather hard on him lately.

 "Remember now, you promised." She held his gaze with her steely gray eyes, that piercing stare that she seemed so unaware how deep it cut.

                "I won't forget," he assured her with conviction. "But are you absolutely sure this is what you want?"

                She nodded once. Emptying her glass, she grabbed her coat and slid into it. "Let's get out of this place, huh? I can feel eyes."

                He rose from his chair and pulled on his own coat, dodging her keen stare once more. "I know exactly how you feel," he said quietly following her to the door. Just before she stepped through into the wide, gleaming world of snow, she flashed the bartender a bright smile. 

                "What was that for?" he asked incredulously once they were outside. 

                She raised her eyebrows. "I was keeping up appearances," she said matter of fact. "Why should you care?"

                He shook his head. "I don't."

                Stopping in the snow, she turned to look at him fully. "Are you jealous, Mr. Black?" she asked, amazed. "You honestly can't stand not having a woman's attentions all to yourself." Laughing at him, she resumed her trek through the snow. 

                "I am not jealous," he countered coolly. "And you're not really a woman, or I would have had your attention—you wouldn't have been able to keep your eyes off of me."

                "Than what am I, then?" she demanded, indignant. 

                He looked long at her, examining her stature, short, shorn locks, strange, youthful face with its masked burden of care. He nodded, convinced that he had reached the correct conclusion in his mind. "A leprechaun or a fairy of some odd sort. A fairy with the power of bewitching unsuspecting evil bartenders."

                She laughed. It contained only enough mirth to maintain the easy lightness of the conversation, but his words had pricked her. Indeed, she must seem to most some inhuman, unfeeling creature. She was sure he knew not how true he had spoken when he'd said such words, but it had been said nonetheless. The dream came back to her and she suddenly heard those words spoken over again, drowning out anything further said by her companion. _It means that what was precious to you was worth more than what was precious to me. What was it that was precious, that she was willing to choose over another's treasure? Was she indeed as selfish as Black thought her? _

                No, she satisfied her logic: she was looking out for her brother and Black as well and if she came off as selfish in the process, what was that for a loss? At least those she cared for would be safe and she could focus on the task at hand without the care of worry that constantly plagued her. The thought was interrupted suddenly when she felt Sirius squeeze her arm and nod in the direction of the woods ascending the mountain. Without noticing it, she and Black had trodden the road almost all the way to the chapel…her mystery chapel, the very one that had occupied so many of her waking hours. It was right before her now, as real and as tangible as one could prove by simple touch. In the direction that Black wished her to look, she saw a dark and solitary figure approaching slowly from the woods. It was Remus, she noticed as an involuntary smile lit her face. She turned into the warmly glowing chapel with Black, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to Remus, and also wishing to take refuge from the wind and snow if only for a little while. 

                The chapel, built sometime in the height of the Gothic period, before its total defeat by the grandeur of the Renaissance, seemed as quaint and as typical of country modesty as that style would allow. It was not very tall, but a magnificent space nonetheless: its walls, made of a honey-colored stone that seemed to absorb and hold the heat from the numerous candles, were etched in heavy, but open and not overly fine tracery, the openings covered over with brilliant stained glass, the familiar stories told and retold through their glimmering hues of reds, blues, golds, and greens. Statues gazed down on them with pious eyes, in almost a judging manner, from the walls of the entrance. She couldn't help but feel small and conspicuously unrighteous under their astute notice. She moved forward, drawn in by the warmth and by the ephemeral sound of a choir somewhere in the recesses of the small cathedral, tiny voices blending and reverberating through the airy space. The effect was wondrous and humbling at the same time.

                Bringing her eyes back to the person at her side, she realized he no longer stood by her, but walked further on into the wide space of the nave. She allowed him to go his own way, watching as he approached the altar and, like a strange crusader, bend his knee to a statue of the Virgin. He no doubt carried many burdens of guilt, Jude recognized, feeling an odd sympathy. She knew how it felt to seek absolution everywhere and to find none. She resumed her own sacred path. Grandly carved statuary peered out of niches in the walls, beholding the penitent and the proud alike. The first one she came to was surrounded by various animals: a lamb, a fox, a rabbit. He was holding a bird, gazing with love upon the small creature. "St. Francis," she said to herself, pleased that she could produce the names as easily now as she could when she was six. The catechism lessons in her head had not then been driven out by the less worthy learning, she mused wryly. 

                The next one bore the likeness of a man with a lion crouched at his feet. St. Mark was the name that image matched. She looked down the succession of statues—they all depicted the apostles. Giving the Twelve no more of her attention, she stepped quietly across the still nave to the other aisles. A lone figure stood, almost forgotten and tucked away in obscurity, a sad and solemn expression marking the features. She had to admit as she looked curiously at the icon that it was strange to see him here in such a small church, tucked away in a little town. In her experience, no one really needed this saint until things got so bad they could no longer be born—not a likely candidate for veneration in such a peaceful little hamlet. Slowly and unsure, she reached a hand out and touched the stone feet. 

                "Must be lonely when people only ask you for help if they're desperate," she spoke to the unhearing ears. "I'll bet it's quite an annoyance, having a name that so closely resembles infamy. Not many people call on you to aid them, I'd wager, because they are afraid to get Judas on the line instead." She offered him a small smile, the best she had to give him at the moment. "But I'll speak to you if you'll hear me, St. Jude."

                After a moment of silent contemplation on the task she was shortly to undertake, asking the benevolent miracle worker to aid her in the hour of her desperation, she felt the blessed release of the tension she had carried since…she couldn't even pin down a date when it had begun, everything was such a tangle in her mind. But the calm presence of stone soothed her. With a renewed peace that she could only hope to enjoy for a few moments longer, she sat in a lone corner, silent and penitent in the ethereal setting, the soft child-voices of a girls' choir practicing washing over her. Eyes closed, she simply waited for the time to tick down to zero, when she would be compelled to give up her peace for action. Starting slightly with surprise, she felt a hand on her own as it clasped the soft cushion on the bench. Looking up, she saw her brother seated next to her, examining the space with an intellectual eye, appreciating the harmony of the masonry with the light and music, all culminating in an altogether enchanting atmosphere. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel his tension around her. 

                Silence reigned for some time between them. Sirius remained disengaged from them on his own pilgrimage. The music, sung in French, Jude guessed, for she couldn't understand any of the words, was moving and beautiful, even if she was powerless to discern its meaning. Turning to her brother, she whispered to him, "What are they singing about?" She asked not to shed light on the mystery of the song, but simply to hear him speak to her kindly, without restraint or resentment for once. 

                He looked at her and all his harsh feelings dissipated as he marked her earnest sincerity. "It is difficult to translate," he answered her. She immediately lowered her eyes to the ground as if she had cautioned herself not to ask and had gone against good advice. "I shall try anyway," he added, closing his fingers around her cold hand. 

                _Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment_

                He smiled at the words the young girls voiced so purely. "The pleasure of love lasts only one moment—not a very happy tune, is it?"

                Shaking her head, she agreed with him. "But true, no doubt. Love has much to contend with—death being only one of many things it cannot survive."

                He allowed more of the chorus to escape his scrutiny, as it was all bent on Jude. "A pretty desolate theory of yours, don't you think?" It was not said unkindly, but with much compassion. "Do you truly believe that?"

                Jude shrugged. "I'm not sure really what I believe anymore. I will only say that it has been my experience of love—or the pleasure of it anyway. One cannot feel such sentiment beyond the grave, only the memory of it, which is much worse than having never had love to begin with."

                He patted her hand gently. "That may be true. But love is brave and does not believe there is any sword that could conquer it. And likewise it will not be denied. Love is proud, Jude, and will not be ignored, even by one so stalwart and calloused as you. _Tant que cette eau coulera doucement vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie je t'aimerai_: as long as this water will run gently toward this brook which borders the meadow, I will love you."

                Jude looked on him, the last remnant of a family she did not know, and felt truly how wrong she had spoken. Indeed, she loved him as well. But she could not put a finger on the reason why she could not likewise voice it—as if to say the words would be to open her small and inexperienced heart to a torture it could not endure. A deep, sinking feeling warned her that the obstacles of that love would be tested soon. And to pass the test, she believed it might cost her what was most precious to her. 

                His eyes left her face, the calm expression like the quiet surface of a pond, announcing none of the turmoil beneath its glassy sheen. They settled then on Sirius, still in a position of penance. Jude returned her gaze to him as well, and she could not help but wonder at which sin he was asking to be absolved of. They all had guilt heaped heavily upon them, these three strange pilgrims—which one carried the greater burden, she knew not. But what she was resolved of in that instance is that for all of the forgiveness in heaven, she would not let her penance be done by another—this crusade was her own. She alone would go where angels fear to tread.

Author's Note: "The only disease that could survive my blood is alcoholism" is a line I modified from the film version of _The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (not from Rebecca Wells' book, which is equally good and highly recommended). "Afraid of getting Judas on the line" was modified from Kevin Spacey's line in __The Life of David Gale. _

Roll Call: I am deeply apologetic that this chapter took so long, but only two more weeks of school and I'm done with it for life and all my time can be devoted to my works of fiction (well not all my time). But since I am no longer updating regularly, I will be happy to email anyone who wishes me to when I update. Just leave your email in a review and I'll let you know when there is a new chapter to be had. **Emjay** (I am only too happy to pull in second place in the list of good things for that day! A new puppy is far better than fanfic any day! And what a cute name—Dufferin! Well I am so glad you are enjoying this story), **Mags **(Yes, it was about time Rebel Jude came back…Sullen Jude was just no fun at all! I'm glad you are enjoying an original character so much, and the rest of the tale to boot! Thanks), **Minerva of Tortall** (Yeah, poor Bill is now officially on the back burner. But that doesn't mean he's past his usefulness yet. Neither is Snape, but I'm promising nothing in the way of deaths…just prepare yourself for a shocker soon).


	50. Room With A View

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author. The title of this chapter comes from a book by E. M. Forster, _A Room With A View._

**Author's Note: PLEASE READ! **

**Hopefully, everyone has read _Order of the Phoenix_. But if you haven't don't worry, I won't spoil anything for you. It does present a few problems to my story, however, that I cannot ignore, so here's the skinny on what I intend to do about it: This story was begun as an AU and that, of course, doesn't change. I hoped to have at least the fifth year shenanigans out of the way before _Order_ came out, but since that failed miserably, I have just decided to ignore Rowling's book altogether and keep on trucking with my own plot. I may incorporate a few of the clever ideas and tropes she set forth in the book, but as far as plot goes, I'm sticking with what I planned originally. And if anyone was devastated by certain events in _Order_ well then look no further—anything can happen yet in my little world! Happy reading!**

Romanian 101: Prieten (friend), Râde (raven), Fatâ (girl). The Romanian phrases and chunks of dialogue that follow are translated in the text for your convenience. Thank you!

Chapter Fifty: Room With A View

'I feel diseased 

_Is there no sympathy_

_From the sun?___

_The sky's still fire_

_But I am safe in here_

_From the world outside_

_So tell me what's the price to pay_

_For glory?'___

_Finch, What It Is To Burn_

                The newly fallen snow glittered in the night like millions of crystals scattered over tufts of fluffy lamb's wool. The crystalline hills and crests of the Alpine scene were bathed alternately in the purest light then deep shadow as the moon dipped in and out of the scuttling clouds. Jude watched their swift progress wishing that they would slow their course across the sky. The half moon was bright enough, but because it was reflected by the pure, crystal snow, Artemis' sphere may as well have been full. Visibility was near perfect and the cover of the skeletal trees was thinning. Soon enough she and her two companions would be past the tree line and in plain view of it. 

                Despite the best of efforts, their footfalls crunched noisily in the snow. The altitude was getting to her, causing her head to swim. The tension was eating away at her too and more than once she had turned to snap at Black as he plodded along behind her. He made no more noise than she did but what was that to her? All good will had disappeared with the warm glow of the snug little chapel and although Black in particular was not responsible for her volatile mood, he was there and that was enough. 

                Crouching behind the blackened trunk of a stout pine, Jude peered ahead of her, squinting and grinding her teeth. She didn't turn when she felt a hand on her shoulder but tilted her head slightly to pick up the whispered words through the wind, not taking her eyes off of a slight shimmer on the slope above them. Remus pointed over her shoulder and indicated the direction in which they should see the castle. She nodded. The shimmer she'd seen was a sure sign of magical protection—an Unplottable Charm, but stretched over a very large space. Jude was calculating how large the space must be when she heard the question she was just about to ask voiced. 

                "Wards?" Black looked to his friend and then back at the snow at his feet that he was sweeping around idly with a pine branch owning a few frozen needles. "There's got to be an alarm of some sort. If I know Lucius Malfoy, he's warded everything."

                Remus shook his head. "Only three by my count." 

                "Are you sure?" Jude demanded, a disbelieving and shrewd look on her face. 

                Black frowned darkly. "If he says he's sure, then he's sure." He was glaring angrily at her. "Why such distrust all of the sudden?"

                "Jeez," Jude muttered, turning her back to them both and focusing once more on the slight shimmer in the air. "Call off your dog, Remus. I asked only because it seemed so few."

                "Few but effective," Remus intoned gravely. "Check for yourself if you like. You'll find the same thing: Unplottable Charm, Silencing Charm and a Perimeter Alarm Curse. First two are not really for protection, just precautionary. Wouldn't want the townspeople unduly stirred by questionable happenings, would he?" 

                Jude expelled a deep breath, a puff of icy mist ascending to the black sky above. "The third one is for us." 

                "Looks like it," Black commented blandly, jabbing the frozen ground with the pine twig. "So how do we get in?"

                "Counter curse," Remus said finally, an accent of defeat that was almost inaudible marking his instructor's voice. "Catch is that it requires a password. Insurance that only the maker and his selected few can enter." He glanced sideways at Jude as she shoved her hands further into her pockets. "Or we attempt to break it—that would require strong magic." 

                She nodded. "It would be pretty damn detectable though." A look of solemn agreement was exchanged. "It'd be more stealthy to set off Filibuster Fireworks spelling _Hey, You! Down Here!_"

                "Well that is a helpful suggestion, but couldn't we take a crack at the counter curse trying different passwords?" Black offered impatiently. Jude wondered what it was he was so eager to get on with. 

                "It could work," Remus confessed, "but we'd need more than a guess. I'll bet there's a built-in jinx ensuring only one shot at disabling the curse." He sighed heavily. "Any other suggestions?"

                Jude frowned and stared at the shimmering illusion of a snowy slope and a cluster of silver birches. The nearer they came to the castle—three people who knew exactly what they were looking for—the thinner the illusion would become until it faded altogether. The same trick was used to hide Hogwarts and several other notable buildings in the wizarding world. The Silencing Charm assured the occupants privacy no matter who came and went, no matter what went on in the numerous cavernous halls—the mountainside would remain shrouded in the icy silence of the Alpine winter. The Perimeter Alarm Curse was the challenge, the gate set up to keep the enemy out. It was locked and the master held the key. Her frown deepened. 

                "_Divitiae__ est potestas._"

                "What?" 

                Jude turned to face Black, astonished that she'd spoken aloud. "What?" She reiterated his question lamely. 

                "You were talking to yourself and you said something curious and I wanted to know what it meant, ergo the inquisitive response." He smiled his charmer's smile but she continued to stare blankly. 

                Shaking her head, she dismissed him. "It was nothing." Biting her lip, she furrowed her brow in deep thought. He was right: it was a curious thing to say. Must have been a scrap of the past, something she'd heard somewhere before. She continued to plumb her memory for the significance of the phrase. 

                "_Divitiae__ est potestas_. Wealth is power," Remus said quietly at her side. "Where did you hear that?"

                Her eyes went wide at his words. "His mantra. Lucius Malfoy's phrase—he was always very fond of it. Used it as a password several times. I don't know how I remembered it." She was beaming at him. "Could it possibly be the key for this curse?" 

                "Depends," Black said shrewdly, "You said he uses it often?"

                "Yep," she answered confidently. "For almost everything."

                "Then," he continued, "Maybe he suspects that you would remember it. He wouldn't use a password he knew wasn't secure, of course."

                "But he thinks I'm dead," she reminded him. 

                To her surprise, Black shrugged. Looking to Remus, he ventured, "It's worth a shot, right?" 

                The other man sighed resignedly. "I don't see another way in." He gave Jude a half-hearted smile. It was the go ahead to disarm the curse. She focused all her attention on the tiny shivers in the air—the illusion, hoping that if He indeed was somewhere behind the shimmering snow and silver birches that masked sinister walls and towers of the castle that her presence would not be palpable to Him. She needed to remain undetected just long enough to get in and get out. She let her eyes wander to the two people at her side. They were worried about being seen in the blinding whiteness of the moonlit snow, a worry she shared. But her apprehension went so far beyond that—it was a frightening reality that she had such a visceral connection with Him and she could not possibly allow them to know. So she ignored it, the little warning voice in her head that sounded annoyingly like Dumbledore. It was her duty to soldier on, no matter the obstacles.

                She focused her attention once more on the shimmering haze before her and concentrated with every scrap of energy she had. Taking a deep breath she raised her left hand and enunciated clearly the words she hoped would disable the curse that was meant to keep them out. "Finite Sentire," she commanded, adding the pompous declaration, "Divitiae est potestas." A moment passed and she believed that their sole chance had been wasted. A tension crept into her skull, like the beginnings of a headache. But just as suddenly, it disappeared, replaced by an almost giddy peace. "Did it work?" she asked weakly, not wanting to know the answer.

                Wand in hand, Remus was smiling. "It worked." He rose to his feet but did not move.

                Jude stood next to him and studied his face. "You feel it too?" she whispered, hoping Black did not hear. It was not a comforting sight to see him nod. 

                "He's building an army," he confirmed quietly. This was what she too feared. "An army of dark creatures."

                "Look," she said in a commanding voice, turning to face Black as well, "It would be the safest, simplest plan if I used my Animagus form to sneak in. I could find Snape in less time than it would take all three of us to break in. When I find him, all I have to do is give him this." She reached into her coat and pulled a chain from beneath her scarf. "It's a Portkey." She held in the palm of her hand a silver charm that looked like the points of a compass. "I'm in and out in less than twenty minutes." She was looking pointedly at Black to back her up just as he promised he would back in the pub. 

                The girl's stare was infuriating. Black held the angry glare as long as he could bear to but looked away, frustrated with his lack of fortitude. Those were the eyes of one of his closest friends, the man standing next to him. But those familiar gray eyes were animated with something that caused him to grit his teeth, something that made him want to punch her squarely in the nose instead of cooperate. And he realized who it was that she reminded him of—the very man they were here to rescue. 

                "Are you with me?" She was glaring at him, willing him to comply and hopefully to convince his friend to do the same. 

                He glanced up sharply, tossing the pine branch away. "Yeah, I am." Turning to Remus, he shrugged his shoulders. "It seems like the best plan, mate. I'm sorry, but I agree with her."

                "Jude, you haven't thought this through," Remus began. "It's not as if these spells protecting the castle are your only obstacle. It's still too dangerous to let one of us go in alone." At an angry look of protest, he held up a hand, silencing her. The action reminded Jude of Dumbledore and her expression darkened slightly. "Even if you could Transfigure yourself into a flea, it would be too dangerous. We all stand a better chance together than alone."

                Jude was about to protest when a few quick words from Sirius distracted her. "Stay here.  I'll be right back," he muttered, business like and she briefly saw the figure of a large black dog bounding across the white snow in pursuit of something she could not see. Remus had tugged her behind the black and frozen trunk of a tall pine, his sharp eyes following Sirius. 

                "Where's he gone to?" she asked in a whisper, no longer able to see Black. 

                "I don't know," he answered tensely. They were still for minutes that seemed like ages. Jude's fingers were like ice but she dared not move until she was sure the coast was clear. From the expression on Remus' face, Jude could tell that waiting was slowly losing its place as an option. "Should we go after him?" he whispered after the long moments of silence in which Sirius did not return. 

                Jude, who'd been silently seething over Black's apparent abandonment of their plan, saw the first glimmer of hope to keep her brother out of trouble. "Yes," she said firmly, "You go after Black. He may have found something, or he may need your help. I'll find a way in and I'll meet you back here."

                Her expression fell as he shook his head. "No way. Why are you so determined to go alone anyway?" 

                She sighed, defeated. "Because I don't want to see anyone else get hurt, is that a crime? Does that make me a bad person?" 

                "No," he said neutrally, "But it does make you too cautious. We'll never get anywhere if we worry too much about the person next to us. Just worry about yourself, Jude. Trust me to handle what I come up against." He laid a hand on her shoulder gently. "And I'll have to trust you to take care of yourself. But I see no reason why we can't help each other out."

                "Well," she acquiesced dispassionately, "Then I guess the question is do we wait for Black, or go without him? Did you see what he was after anyway?"

                "A rat," was his answer. Jude knew what this meant and gritted her teeth, not angrily but resignedly. This was his battle. Peter was his and she could not begrudge him a little vengeance. "I think it would be best to go on without him," Remus added solemnly. 

She nodded and they trudged silently and cautiously toward the illusory shimmer in the air. As they approached, the shining illusion faded to reveal the dark and imposing castle walls.  Dark turrets and towers jutted from the crystal landscape like the jagged peaks beyond. With animal stealth they crept up to the very wall, black and constructed of heavy and imposing masonry—quite a contrast to the thin elegance and fragile quality of the winter world around them. 

A gloveless hand pressed against the frigid stone was all the proof she needed: This was for real. These walls were no illusion—and they really were a good twenty-five feet tall, and no mistake. No sound issued from the cold and looming castle. The effects of the Silencing Charm, she supposed. The place looked as still as a church, no movement in or out—and no guards that she could see. Buttresses and gargoyles, she noted with disdain—Lucius Malfoy's ego was almost as baroque as his taste. 

"Look pretty clear to you?" she asked. She was relieved when he signaled negative—his eyesight was sharp, sharper even than her bird-like glare. If he said the coast was clear, then she would trust his judgment. She nodded and then heaved a heavy breath that created a dense, frosty cloud in the clean, crisp air—white against the dark sky. "Okay," she began, business-like, "I'll check things out from the top of the wall, see what's on the other side and if there is a way in." At a warning glance, she added in a placating tone, "I won't go alone, all right? I promise." As she muttered her quick promise, she stripped off her scarf and coat, pulled her sweater off over her head and kicked her shoes off. Remus frowned as she stood before the wall, estimating its height, barefoot in the snow and beginning to shiver in a t-shirt. 

"What on earth," he began but did not finish his sentence. In one deft motion, she leaped for the wall, but as she grasped the rough, rocky edge, Jude disappeared altogether. A black raven stared down at him from the steep, stone wall, a menacing figure clad in dark, shining feathers. The bird cawed once, he could tell only by the urgent opening of the sharp, pointed beak, but for the barrier blocking sound, he could not hear it. In the very next instant a flash of motion sped from the highest turret toward the bird, streaking with reflected light across a sleek surface, but the action was so fast, he could not distinguish the object. The raven spread its black wings, ready to flee the threat, but it fell from the wall, out of sight. Another black streak shot in his direction allowed him the briefest of moments to identify it. The arrow struck his shoulder and hurled him to the ground with its force. The stars faded from the inky sky, rendering all an even, unconscious shade of the blackest black. 

***

His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was determined not to slow. He would catch his prey if it was the last thing he did. The rat streaked gray through the white snow just paces in front of him, teasing him with the distance between them. Between him and justice. He wanted it so bad he could taste the blood. The vengeance. 

One bound and a leap put the prize squarely under one of the dog's massive paws. It squeaked furiously, a fighting bundle of fur, teeth and claws. Still, the fierce little rodent would be no match for the black dog. He pulled his lips back, tongue lolling from the wild canter across the powdered snow, freezing air stinging his lungs, and bared his teeth. A sinister canine smile—if, in fact, dogs were capable of such a feat. To exact payment for one friend's death with another's should not have brought such profound glee or satisfaction. But it held that promise for Sirius Black. 

The rat, Peter, the man who squirmed under his heavy paw, deserved nothing more: He'd given up one friend to save his skin, and would have done so again had he not escaped Fudge's grasp thanks to Harry. Black swallowed hard at the thought of the boy, hundreds of miles away. He spared this man's life once, even though he was responsible for both his mother and father's death. Gritting his teeth, the paw holding Peter changed to a hand clamped like a vice around his old friend's body. This was against every inclination, Black debated ruefully with himself as he reached for his borrowed wand. "Finite Incantatem."

The man was curled into the snow, cowering under the dark figure's menacing grip, secure around his throat. "Hello, Peter," Black barked between clenched teeth, his jaw set fiercely and his glare penetrating. "Long time."

"Y…yes, indeed," the cowering figure stammered. This had the undesired affect of tightening Black's grip on his already constricted throat. 

His face contorted in rage, he held the wand firmly between his eyes, reminding him that he was disobeying every instinct to kill him and not to trespass on his patience. "Talk, Peter," he demanded savagely, "I know you're not out here for a midnight stroll."

The stout little man sniveled an incomprehensible excuse, shivering in the snow, a hand over his face as if it could protect him from any blow Black would deal him. After a hard shaking, he determined to give the man the information he desired. "Y…you know why I am out here, Sirius."

Peter's use of his one-time friend's name ignited a more furious fire. "Do not call me that," he spat, "You are nothing to me. In fact, you're less, you sniveling little coward. You're a problem I should have taken care of two years ago when I had the chance."

"Then," Peter spoke, losing his simpering tone, "Finish the job, _Friend. _Finish it now while you have the chance." As Sirius thrust the wand closer to his twitchy, rodent-like nose, he shied away a bit, but his tone remained confident. "Only know this: If you kill me now, they don't stand a chance."

"Who!" Sirius demanded, releasing his throat and grabbing him viciously by the front of the robes. 

"You know whom I'm talking about," Peter snarled, relishing his little revelation and the effect it had on Sirius, who immediately loosened his grip, terror replacing his smug and violent confidence. "Remus and your little tagalong, Elliot."

Sirius jarred the man roughly, yanking him to his feet and shaking him as a dog would shake a rat between its teeth. Peter was gripping his wrist with one small, boyishly pudgy hand, the other slipping into his robes unnoticed. "What did you do to him, Peter? What happened to…"

Black didn't get the opportunity to finish the interrogation. It happened too quickly. In one quick turn of events, Black found himself facing down the point of his own wand as well as Peter's. "Listen to me carefully, Sirius," Peter said with calm authority. 

Black charged him, but he back stepped quickly, pocketing one wand and shaking a warning finger at him. "Ah, ah," he chastised the menacing figure like a child, "Now I need your full attention for this, Sirius. Remus' life depends upon it."

He snorted derisively. "Like you care, Peter," he snarled. "Going to pick us off one by one, then, are you? First James, then Remus, or maybe it was me you intended to do in first, huh, Pete?" He continued to step threateningly toward the short, squat man brandishing the wand. "You always despised me the most. Funny, though, I'll bet you never thought I knew that." He could see Peter's jaw working, clenching and unclenching in rage. "Did you even have to kill James, then? Or was he a mere casualty in your plan to pay me back for everything you _thought_ I deserved?"

Peter's face was contorted in anger. "You are still the same arrogant bastard! Always on about yourself, you and James were two of a kind. The only person I realized treated me with anything resembling respect was Remus. So shut up and listen for once, Black, because for once this isn't about you." Black froze in his tracks, staring blankly at the small angry man. Peter resumed, finding a new reservoir of patience. "Honestly, I doubted that either of you would come at all. The Dark Lord is only after one person, and she's as good as His now. Personally I thought He was daft to use Snape of all people as bait—can you imagine anyone risking their necks for that prat? But He has what He wants. Remus is of no consequence," he said evenly, his lips turning into an unpleasant smile at a secondary thought, "and neither are you."

"So," Sirius said dangerously, "What do you want from me, then?"

Peter shrugged. "Don't you understand that I am trying to help you?" At this proclamation, Sirius snorted his disbelief at the man's words once more. "Well, I'm trying to help Remus anyway. You can go to hell for all I'm concerned."

"It's mutual Peter," he spat impatiently, "So what do I have to do?"

"Walk away," Peter instructed blandly, wand still aimed at Sirius' chest. "Leave this place and don't come back."

Black laughed a cold and mirthless laugh. "Just walk away? How stupid do you think I am? Trust you to save my one remaining friend? You're cracked!"

Peter aimed the wand more emphatically, aimed to kill. "It's the only choice you have. Or you die right here, tonight, Black. Do you read me?"

Black nodded. "I _read_ you, Peter." He held his arms out at his sides. "Do it now because I'm not leaving him in there. _I'm_ not a coward." He smiled sinisterly. "You don't have the sack to kill me, or anyone else for that matter!" He took another step toward the man with the wand. Peter pressed the weapon to Black's heart, gritting his teeth as if it was taking everything in his power not to say the words. 

"Leave, Black," he said, his voice tense with rage. "Go back to Dumbledore. You'll need his help for this one." To his relief, Black stepped backward once then again. 

"Peter," Sirius said as he backed away from the man he once regarded as friend, now his one consuming passion, "If he is harmed, there will be no limit to how fast or how far I will go to get to you. My face will be the last thing you ever see. That is a promise." The man clad almost entirely in black disappeared slowly into the dark of the wintry night. His voice echoed back to Peter, "You haven't seen the last of me, _Friend._"

Peter watched him vanish from his sight before he returned his gaze to the hazy shimmer of the castle, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the tasks that lay ahead of him. "I'm counting on it," he muttered, allowing the stout north wind carry his voice away into the night.

***

"It's not possible!"

A snide laugh and a voice thickly laced with a Central European accent answered the astonished exclamation. "Well, Mr. Donovan," the voice intimated smoothly, "I do not pretend to know what is impossible, but if you mean to question the feasibility of the hit, I take offense, Sir. My archers are excellent marksmen."

"No," the astonished man spoke in a clear London accent, heightened to a shrill pitch at the sight he proclaimed to be impossible. "I mean this cannot possibly be who it looks like."

"_Non__?_" the silky foreign voice teased. "And, pray, why cannot this be so?"

"Because," the Londoner shrieked, "I killed her myself…almost five months ago! She should already be dead!"

Blurry shapes swam in and out of her vision and she tried to grasp the tense and teasing words that passed before her, determined to make it all mean something. One of the fuzzy figures knelt before her as the other paced back and forth, hand stroking a beardless chin in deep thought, apparently very agitated. The kneeling figure seemed to regard her thoughtfully, tracing a cold finger gently over her forehead. She looked at the man, blinking fiercely to get a clear look, even though her head still felt fuzzy. 

The man turned to the pacing form behind him and smiled a wide and gracefully sinister, mocking smile. She shivered—between blood red lips glistened a pair of ivory fangs. "Quite the contrary, I'm afraid to tell you, _Prieten_. She is very much alive." He turned his pale face once more to her, fixing his inky, penetrating eyes on hers. "Are you not, little _fatâ__?"_

Jude pressed her back against the freezing stone, the jagged edges snagging her shirt that was much too thin to keep her warm in the Alpine snow. Despite the blinding pain that streaked up her arm, she raised her left hand and shouted the disarming spell she knew so well and had used so many countless times. But the pain, so distracting and absolute, she blinked tears back and simply gaped at the amused grin on the pale man's face. She gulped a tense, disbelieving breath—Never had her magic failed her. 

The second man ceased his pacing at once, staring quite angrily at her. Clenching her teeth, recognition had dawned. "What? Nothing of the great powers you are rumored to have?" he spat contemptuously. Jude gritted her teeth again as she cradled her arm against her chest. She surmised that her wrist was broken. But that didn't account for the blood. "But…Impossible! I saw you drown in the Nile!"

Jude gasped ragged breaths as a small smile crept to her lips. "Me? No, Trent, you didn't see me drown. Bill, though…" The smile vanished and she set her face in a convincing display of the many tones of hatred. "Well, at least you got one out of two."

"_Ascultâ__ tot, dar nu crede tot, _Mr. Donovan," the man said with a wry, triumphant smile spread across his ashen face, his dark eyebrows rising in mockery. "Believe nothing of what you hear, and only half of what you see." With one smooth motion, the man was on his feet, a fluid motion that betrayed absolutely no effort behind it. This man did not move, Jude noted. He glided, he hovered, floated even. Easy when one is not human, she imagined. 

As he turned gracefully to Trent, she seized her opportunity. Kicking out with every ounce of strength she could muster, she knocked the man back a few steps. In the same instant she gained her feet and ran. But as soon as she made to dash along the wall, one arrow then three then a dozen more struck the wall just inches from her face, imbedding the flint heads in the thick stone, the wood vibrating audibly, an eerie warning for her not to move another inch. Another volley smacked the wall, which now bristled like an agitated porcupine, arrows protruding viciously like quills. The man silently, lazily raised his hand and the archers ceased. His eyes remained fixed on his prey. 

"You are brave, little _Râde_," he said, slowly approaching her as she slumped back against the wall, her breath coming with more difficulty. "But do not tempt my archers," he said blandly, pointing above them. On the parapets and turrets, Jude saw the gargoyles—or what she thought had been mere stone guardians—knocking their bows, ready for another volley. "Carpathian Goblins," he informed her, his silver tones ringing in her ears. "Their aim is always true." He reached out a gloveless hand slowly and wrapped the thin long fingers around her arm, just below her shoulder. His hand came away red, glistening in the austere moonlight. He brought his fingers to his face, just inches away from his crimson lips still twisted in a sinister smile. The wind blew, but she ignored the cold, ignored the shivering, the numbness. Her attention was fixed intoxicatingly upon the man before her, his black eyes searching hers for a weakness, a foothold, an advantage. Even though he had the upper hand, he needed to conquer this small creature. 

Just before the blood-soaked fingers touched his lips, his hand swiftly darted to her neck, the red staining her pale, cold skin. The words died on her lips as she gasped for breath, his fingers tightening slowly like a vice. His smile grew broader. 

"Yes," Trent spoke over his shoulder, a change having come over his mood, "Kill her. She should have died by my hand, but so long as she is dead, Andrei. If He knew she was alive…"

Jude coughed and spluttered, falling back against the rough stone. The man released his grip. The bloody hand still wrapped around her neck, pinning her to the wall, he turned mechanically to face the sleek, blond man who'd spoken to him. "Mr. Donovan," he addressed him with honeyed politeness, "The Dark Lord sent us expressly to retain this prisoner, not to kill her." With these words, he pulled her roughly away from the wall and shoved her ahead of him, directing their steps toward the castle. "Do not think, my _prieten__,_ that I do not understand your…predicament." His eyes glinted malignantly in the milky moonlight magnified by the crystal snow. He clapped a hand on Trent's shoulder, elegantly squared in his granite-colored greatcoat, impeccably pressed. "_Cine se teme de moarte si-a pierdut viata."_With one hand, he spun the young Englishman toward the castle, forcing him to walk ahead of them. "Fear of death is worse than death itself, my _prieten_. Mind you do not stray from the path you have chosen," he reminded Donovan blithely, pointing skyward to his implacable archers, "Or death may come to you even sooner than you wish."

Jude raised her eyes to the heavens, watching as the clear, black sky disappeared behind stone. They walked into the confining, echoing presence of the castle keep, Trent despondent, head bowed, marching along solemnly in the front of the small party. Fingers wrapped firmly around her arm, blood still flowing from the arrow wound, Jude walked quietly beside the now somber figure of the pale man—his pallor, Jude noticed, was made even paler by contrast to his shining black hair, cropped short at the base of his neck.

The aura of dark magic hung thickly in this place. It pricked at her skin and made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end despite the thick coating of blood—her own blood, she remembered absently. The sharp, metallic tang of dark magic, the taste of it stuck in the back of her throat and made her fight to keep from retching. It was a feeling she remembered well—and had once been so accustomed to, even immune. The feeling was oddly familiar and…comforting. She shuddered to admit such a thing, if only to herself. A sigh of relief escaped her as they walked down the torch-lit, cavern-like corridors, slipping further beneath the stone fortress, underground to the dungeons. Remus and Sirius remained yet safe on the outside. She hoped against hope that they would not try something as foolish as rescuing her. The chain, tucked away beneath her filthy, blood stained shirt, was her one hope of escape. But first she would let the specter-like man lead her to the professor.

Down yet another claustrophobic, winding stairwell, her arm throbbing rhythmically beneath his vice grip, the temperature dropping a few more degrees. She shivered without reserve now, noting little beyond the layout of the place, cataloguing every turn, every doorway, every stone step. At a wide arch flanked on either side by rusted torch brackets, their light flickering orange off of the age darkened walls, the small group stopped long enough for the pale figure to address a few words of clipped Romanian to the minion behind a locked iron-barred door. Jude took in the scene with greedy eyes, looking everywhere for some sign of familiarity. She did not recognize this place, however, to her relief—it could not possibly be the setting of her strange dreams. Indeed, her only recollections of this place were from half-forgotten memories a child had stored—a child who dared not venture too far from her Master's side. This place, she could not forget, had never been a friendly confine. This was and always would be Lucius' realm, his domain, and the sense of threat would hang about her like a shroud for as long as she remained within these walls. She entered the darkness of the dungeons with only one thought: To get in and out before either he or the Dark Lord were aware of their intruder's identity. 

The iron bars were pulled back and Trent walked resignedly into the dark corridor beyond, no longer cowering and seemingly repossessed of his smugly confident air. He spun on his heels and waited for his companions to follow. "Well, Miss Elliot," Trent said affably, taunting her as she was led forward by the darkly clad man, "I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. A room with a view…" He glanced around at the iron bars and age-streaked stone walls, dark shadows and dancing but faint torchlight. "Not a great view, but I assume your stay…like mine…will not be long." He extended a hand inviting her behind a stretch of rusted iron bars, expecting little resistance from her now. She did not obey, but remained beside the tall, dark haired figure, peering through the darkness ahead of her. She thought she caught a slight movement from behind the closest cell, just to her left. Her heart leapt at the sight of a dark, thin but familiar form stepping from the thick shadows to lean carelessly against the bars of his prison. When he spoke, his voice was raspy from lack of use, his tone resigned, defeated and a slight tone of anger or annoyance tinged the words. 

"What are you doing here?" 

Struggling free from the pale man, she rushed over to the bars and wrapped her fingers around the frigid iron, and smiled the stupid and expectant smile of a child. "I came to rescue you," she said, confused by his cold distance. 

"Oh," he said dully, staring from her wide-eyed face streaked with dirt and blood to the pale man watching with interest behind her, "Good job then." He pulled his cloak tighter around his thin, angular shoulders and leaned against the dank walls, glaring at her from behind the impediment. She frowned and released the bars. He was paler than normal and did not look well at all. Still, she expected a different reaction.

She shrugged, hesitating and in that instant the dark, mysterious figure that had led her from the moonlit fields of snow to this bleak world of iron and stone had a good grip on her arm once more. "I thought you'd be glad to see me." Her expression turned darker still. 

He shook his head solemnly. "Foolish child!" he hissed with half-hearted chastisement, unfolding his arms and wrapping his thin fingers around the bars where hers had just been. 

"They were just going to leave you here!" she shouted in pathetic defense, straining at the hand around her arm. "Dumbledore forbade me to come, and…"

"And you should have listened to him!"

She was silent. 

The man that restrained her was laughing softly. "I begin to see the reason Lord Voldemort kept you alive for so long, Severus Snape. One of this pair is of use to him, but which I cannot tell. Our stoic?" he said with smooth emphasis, turning to face the prisoner fully, regarding him thoughtfully. "Is the little Râde motivation?" His grip tightened on her arm and he leaned in toward her threateningly, delighted to see the thin fingers wrapped around the iron bars tighten fiercely. "Or is it the reverse?" he asked with a sly grin that showed his gleaming ivory fangs. He seemed to take a moment to silently ponder this before shrugging idly. "It is of no account, I suppose. I shall have my answer shortly." 

With one quick shove, she was thrown into Trent who had watched the scene with only cursory interest. He seized her by the collar and dragged her into the dark cell opposite Snape's. Trent's grip was tight, but he loosened his grip in curious shock as he felt something give under his fingers. He brought his fist closer to his face and smiled cruelly. "Should have known you were keeping something," he said, dangling the broken chain, the objects in its keeping clinking together as he waved it in front of her. "As always. But," he resumed, tossing the trinket over his shoulder. With no effort the dark figure snatched it out of the air, appraising it with a thoughtful and amused expression. "Now we're even. There's no way out for either of us." His eyes were locked on hers and in that moment she pitied him. Such an expression of sad resignation, it was shared by both of them…a common bond that, for one slight moment, was an understanding between two enemies. In one sharp movement, he turned out of the cell, slamming the bars shut with a loud, metallic clang. 

"See you in hell, Elliot." His voice echoed in the cavernous space as he retreated back down the corridor they had come through, falling in step with the pale and shrouded man. The two were at the entrance, barred and guarded, when a new figure approached them. The door was drawn back and the unknown man, his hair the converse of the other—a honeyed, golden color—addressed the raven-haired vampire. With a quick nod, her captor dismissed him. Jude watched him bow slightly. An underling. His face, pale like the other man's and lips the same color of rouge, held none of the sedate viciousness of his superior's, even though the same fierce fangs shone in the dim light. He possessed a weary calm, a sadness even that reminded her a lot of her brother. She hoped against hope that he was safe from these people and unharmed. The same for Black. They shouldn't have come, she thought as she pressed her forehead to the cold iron of the bars trapping her there. But she would have come regardless, no matter the danger. No matter what was at stake. 

The sound of a metal gate catching its lock gave her a start. Her head rested against the bars and she was spinning idea after idea through her exhausted mind, trying to salvage their escape. Her eyes rose to meet his and she gritted her teeth. "Well?" she asked scathingly. "Don't tell me you would have done differently. I had a plan," she finished weakly, sinking to the frozen ground, her head spinning deliriously. "Your Portkey. But they have it now."

He was silent for several minutes. "Did you come alone?" The answer was as he expected. She slowly shook her head and leaned back against the wall, her eyes closed. "And?" he prompted her. "Where are they?" He was still grasping the bars, glaring at her. "Your brother and Black, I assume?"

Again she nodded. "I came alone into the castle. As far as I know, they are still out on the grounds. Do you think they've been caught?" Her voice was bland and faint.

He released the bars and retreated once more into shadow. "Let's hope not," he answered quietly. "They are our last hope of getting out of this place alive. Rather bleak, if you ask me, but not entirely hopeless." The dungeon was quiet. A dripping sound filled the absence of words, giving the situation a darker, even more sinister and desperate futility. 

She heard him heave a deep sigh. "You shouldn't have come here."

Silence. He continued. "I knew it was dangerous and I accepted that risk. But for you, that same risk is deadly."

At least this time he received an answer. "You above all people should not underestimate me, Severus Snape." Her voice was cold and sharp as flint. "I can take care of myself. Always have. Your cautions are useless so save your breath."

He was on his feet in an instant, his hands wrapped viciously around the bars that separated him from freedom and from her. "I caution you not to save you! We are both of us beyond saving, you know that as do I." His voice matched hers in ferocity. "That is not why he brought you here. He does not want to kill you, Jude. He wants to use you!"

"And you think that I am fool enough to let Him?" she countered angrily.

"You walked right into his hand, didn't you?"

"I came to save you! I didn't drag myself across Europe from some hidden desire to rejoin my former Master, if that is what you are insinuating!"

He slammed a hand against the bars in frustration, causing a dull metallic rattle to echo through the cavern. "Just as he knew you would! Couldn't you see that? I thought I taught you well enough. I thought he was out of your head for good. But obviously I've failed seeing as how it took him so little effort to bring you back to him!"

"It was my choice! He didn't make me do anything!"

"No," he acquiesced, his rage dying a bit as he realized just how deceived she'd allowed herself to become. "But he knows how you will react to anything—he knows how you think, how you operate…and how you feel. And I just don't believe that you forgot that connection."

It wasn't quite an accusation, but it stung like one. Jude looked down at her wrist cradled in her lap. It was swollen and turning a variety of blues and purples. Through the bruises, the Dark Mark stood out clearly on her scarred skin. Was what he said true? Was she trying to return to her Master, even though she'd convinced herself that her only thought was for a friend? She did not trust herself to defend and so remained silent. 

"How is it?" he spoke again. 

"What?" she answered dully. 

"Your arm. You're bleeding."

"Oh," she said without thinking. Looking down at her bloodstained and dirty arm, it was hard to tell where the wound was for all of the crimson mess. Her arm was still cradled in her lap, throbbing. "I'll live," she surmised, adding, "I think my wrist is broken. No magic."

He nodded, unseen in the darkness. "That was my guess. He would not be so careless with you had it not been so."

"But…" she began tentatively, "Why? Why does He want me back? I mean He's got all the power He could possibly want."

"I know," he answered solemnly, "I saw."

"It doesn't really make sense then. I'm not useful. He doesn't keep people around unless they're useful." As she finished these words she fell silent. It was true: If one was not useful to the Dark Lord, they died. And she could think of nothing save Dumbledore's or Harry's death that would please Him greater than hers or Snape's. That only signified one thing to her as she sat on the dank and freezing ground of that gloomy stone hell—she did not have much time to waste. "What is He doing with all of them?" she asked suddenly. 

"The dark creatures?" was the somewhat startled response she received. He sounded incredulous, as if she should have come to this conclusion a while before. She felt hopelessly dim and slow when he gave her the answer. "He's building an army."

"And was that…man…he was the leader? You've met him before?" she asked.

He nodded again wearily although she could not see him through the weak, flickering candlelight. "Yes, I've met him."

She sat up straighter. "Are there many more of them?" 

An interim of silence passed. "Quite a few more actually. That was Andrei. Do not underestimate him, Jude. He is more powerful than you can imagine."

She blinked, perplexed by such an answer. "He's the leader then," she said to herself, calculating, surmising just exactly how Voldemort ensured loyalty from such beings.

"Yes, my little Râde," came the familiar, silky reply of the very person she was pondering. She looked up and just beyond the bars stood the cold and hard figure of the vampire. He seemed to have appeared out of thin air. "And while I am flattered that you find me so intriguing, I cannot claim your attention further. One more important than even I demands an audience with you. Lord Voldemort requests a word." 

She was already on her feet, Snape's words in the forefront of her mind. She did not want to discover what awaited the fool who underestimated this man. He turned a key loudly in the door and beckoned her forward. She left the confines of the dark and freezing cell to stand before the terrifying figure. He extended a hand, motioning that she should walk before him. She obeyed. 

As she moved beyond her own cell and continued down the corridor, she noticed that Snape, whom she could not see from her solitary prison, had gotten to his feet as well and stood at the door to his cell, his face frozen in stern mistrust. "Jude," he called to her. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "Do not let him in. Seal your feelings, bury them or you're as good as his."

"Quiet," Andrei snapped as he passed the professor's cell, slamming one ivory hand flat against the bars. 

"You know what will happen if you do not!" he shouted after her. He watched the small form of the girl disappear through the door. 

At the door, Andrei paused and turned thoughtfully back to the professor. "A word of caution, my friend," he said icily, calm ordering his every motion. "I would not give her too much advice if I were you. One who does not bend must break." His long, black cape billowed behind him like an ebony curtain caught in a gale. He vanished through the door behind Jude. The imperial silence reigned once more. 

She continued down the dark corridor, aware with every step that the piercing eyes never left her back. She could feel them searing. Retracing their steps from their descent into the dungeons, Jude continued up a flight of curved stone steps and found herself in an area entirely new to her. They had diverged from the path that they'd taken from the snow-covered grounds outside. They trod deeper and deeper into the heart of the castle: a feast of Gothic intimidation with pointed arches at every turn and a hulking stone gargoyle staring down from every nook. She walked on silently, staring at these stone figures wondering if they too would spring to life should she try to run. She remembered the sure, straight and powerful aim of the others she'd mistaken for stone beings and did not dare to make that mistake again. 

The halls became loftier, the ceilings no longer close and stifling, dripping with damp and age-blackened slime. They had left the dungeons, that was certain, but still she did not remember this corridor, long and tiled in gleaming marble, every arch along the wall housing a menacing suit of armor. The torch brackets held only enough torches to light the way sufficiently, casting more into flickering shadow than they revealed—only every other one was lit. Jude therefore did not see the movement just to the left of her until she was immediately next to it. The shock of it caused her to stop, draw in a sharp breath, her shoulders tight and squared with tension. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until mocking laughter behind her recalled her to her senses. She released a breath slowly, but she did not relax and dared not blink. Indeed, she was still trying to decide if she saw anything at all or if her eyes played tricks on her. 

"Antonia," the man said smoothly, extending a graceful, ivory hand to the thick shadow at which Jude stared stupidly. She saw the flash of dazzling eyes before she saw anything else, like a cat's reflecting dim light in deep darkness. The shadow dissolved into the form of a woman, tall and thin, clad in black silk that dripped from her elegant shoulders and pale arms like dark water. Her hair, the same color and texture as her vestments—Jude was tempted to think them the very same substance—fell over her neck and shoulders and moved slowly and languidly with her graceful movements. She seemed not to walk but to glide. Jet eyes that gleamed like pools of ink in the low light, set in a face that seemed to be carved ingeniously out of the purest ivory, never left her. Lips the color of fresh blood were turned upward into an amused smile. She did not look at the man whom had spoken her name but remained staring, enraptured at the girl who watched her with such keen interest and such palpable mistrust and caution. 

The woman took Andrei's graciously offered hand without further notice of him. "Andrei," she spoke with a playful accent to her Romanian inflections, "Is this one for us?" She ran voracious eyes from Jude's feet to her face, an unmistakably hungry look. Reaching out a hand, elegant and tapered ivory fingers upon which glinted several large and ornate rings, she brushed a cold finger across her cheek, stepping a bit closer. "But I am so tired of goat blood!" Her eyes sparkled malevolently as her lips parted in laughter, revealing the same white and glistening teeth that gave Andrei his terrifying persona. She took another step toward Andrei's captive. Jude reciprocated with a step backward, her eyes wide with terror. Yet there was something undeniably alluring about the woman, Jude could not help admitting to herself that she stared not only with fear, but also with wonderment. "And this one looks like a bit of a challenge. And I do become so bored here."

"Patience, Antonia," Andrei intoned with a devilish smirk, clamping a hand roughly over Jude's shoulder as if fearing she would dart at any moment due to Antonia's advances. "Soon enough you will have all you desire," he placated her, his eyes flickering involuntarily to the arm he held in a tight grip. Warm blood still trickled from the arrow wound. "But this one is for the Dark Lord. She must not be harmed," he said with a woeful tone. His arm tightened around her arm painfully and he met her dull gray eyes with his gleaming black, piercing eyes—entrancing as Antonia's stare. With an effortless twist of his red lips, he smiled. "Yet," he finished with understated amusement. Despite her best efforts at calm, her breath caught in her throat. 

A startling cry echoed down the corridor from some unknown chamber. Jude jumped slightly against the restraining hand that kept a firm hold on her, but Andrei and Antonia turned to face the cry, excitement and anticipation written over their pale visages like hounds at the plaintive sounds of a wounded rabbit. Antonia shifted her shoulders impatiently beneath the thick coverings of silk and raven hair, appearing every inch the hungry cat, a panther awaiting the opportunity to make the fatal strike. Andrei simply favored Jude with another unsettling grin. 

"Sounds as if some unfortunate soul has displeased him," he said with pleasure. "Perhaps he will be in ill humor for this one as well." He pulled Jude closer, his intimidating height only half as terrifying as that amused and deadly smile. "Antonia, you may yet get your wish. Providing you completed your task, of course." As he finished this last statement, he slacked his tight grip on Jude's arm a bit and turned his attention to the careless shrugs and head tossing of his female counterpart. 

She answered him in rapid Romanian, careless and unconcerned. Jude surmised that she had of course been successful and completed whatever task she had been sent to do. The change of language from English to Romanian intrigued her a bit. There was an obvious desire to keep whatever was discussed a secret from her, or maybe she just read too much into the simple transition from one tongue to the next. Who knew how many languages they spoke between them? For all she knew it could have been quite natural for the switch and did not imply any secretive motives. 

"He did not fight me," she said incredulously, catching Jude by surprise when she reverted back to English. "I did not need Demetri's help. He was as docile as a lamb…thanks to your imbecile archers."

Andrei continued to speak in Romanian, casting a wary glance, however slight, in Jude's direction. He at least was uncomfortable discussing whatever it was in front of her. 

"Yes," she said, arching her dark eyebrows, "he was shot in the chest. I had to heal him with my own powers and now I am hungry again." She finished with a supreme frown and batted her long, dark lashes at him pathetically. Andrei remained pensive, disregarding the insult to his brigade of demonic guards. 

"And he is there?" Andrei asked, the first hint of nervousness Jude had ever heard from this being tingeing his usual imperious tones. 

"Yes," Antonia answered impatiently. 

"Well," he spoke after a pensive silence, "He awaits," he continued, turning a hard, cold glance on Jude, "We should not keep him waiting any longer. It would be unwise."

He spun her around and shoved her forward down the corridor. To her horror they were heading in the direction from which the anguished cry came from. Two massive walnut doors stood before her, the thick wood darkened with age, the brass handles tarnished from century after century of use. Two hulking gargoyles posed as sentries at either side of the doors, but as Jude neared she realized that these were a pair of the very same goblins who patrolled the battlements without, the very same who shot her. Their dull, stony eyes watched her closely but they did not move one centimeter, a very convincing charade of stone. The hand on her shoulder urged her onward until she stood at the very mouth of hell…and she smiled. 

The thought struck her that her life now hung upon the whims, upon the very words of another—and not just any other, but the man she'd so carelessly set herself opposed to so many years ago. She chose this route for her life and even though she felt she should be frightened out of her wits at the moment, she could not muster the proper feeling. Indeed, it almost felt like relief—it was inevitable that she should come to this but had no inkling that it would have taken this long. Her only regret was that innocent people were also bound to die as well. She shrugged and shook her head. A wry laugh escaped her, giving her the appearance of someone a bit cracked. "But it doesn't matter," she said quietly to herself, "We are none of us innocent."

The heavy doors parted and the yellow-orange glow of the fierce torchlight filled her eyes, causing her to blink again and again until her eyes adjusted from the dim gloom she had inhabited just moments before. Her companions seemed to have no such problem. Andrei shoved her forward until they were beyond the doors, well within the brightly lit hall, and he remained at her side, hand still clasped securely on her shoulder. Antonia glided from behind the mismatched pair and stood regally beside them, her eyes shining wildly and her lips curled in triumph and pleasure. 

Jude felt Him before she saw Him. Her eyes trailed the length of the enormous hall and rested on a tall dais upon which sat the figure that she had beheld only months before, now shrouded in unimaginable powers. It seemed ironic to her then, standing there in His presence that before, when His powers were nearly equal to hers, she could do nothing more than run from Him. And now, when faced with one so absolute in His supremacy, so unmatchable especially now that she was powerless, she felt no fear…only unprecedented anger and resentment. She knew now just exactly how He had abused her, how He'd lied to her, stolen her entire life. And she wanted revenge—she wanted to make Him pay. 

As she glared unblinkingly down the length of the hall, her eyes fixed on the snake-like, inhuman and amused visage of the man who embodied everything that she despised in the world…and in herself, she felt for the first time it seemed the awesome power that hate could induce. The lipless mouth spread into a ghastly smile that chilled her even beyond the cold of an Alpine winter. The reasonable and logical voice in her head, the one that sounded annoyingly like Professor Snape, warned her again to seal her feelings, that this rising hatred was volatile, something she could not control, but something He could use to control her.

The Snake's smile parted and the hissing sound of speech reached her across the silent expanse. "And so returneth the lamb into my fold.* Tell me," hissed the demonic voice that had haunted her since she was a child, a voice that terrified her and thrilled her in the same instant. She found herself waiting to hear more of His unearthly tones, "My prodigal child,** why is it that you have returned?"

A skeletal and shriveled hand inched from the rich robes that enfolded the cursed and reborn body and slowly found its way to the shining medallion suspended around His neck. The thin and wasted fingers stroked the metal in soothing adoration. She watched the hand, dazed as it repeated the mechanical motions over and over. The other hand was raised from the gilded arm of the throne-like chair, the spidery fingers beckoning Andrei and his prisoner forward. The hand on her shoulder tightened and he ushered her further into the room with little difficulty. 

"Have you nothing to say, child?" the serpentine face hissed. He paused, expectant of something. He awaited a hopeless plea, no doubt, she thought as her rage heightened. He was soon to be displeased. 

She shrugged off Andrei's hand and saw the Dark Lord raise a hand to stop Andrei from restraining his young charge. His lips thinned into a narrow line, curled at the ends in an amused grin as He watched His one-time protégé preparing to beg for her life. "I think you desire forgiveness…mercy?" He was delighted, perhaps for the first time in a very long time. The thin fingers traced the outline of the ankh as it glittered in the torchlight. 

Antonia, who had also been watching expectantly and with high amusement gasped with a devilish smile crossed the girl's face instead of the trembling lips and stuttered pleas that she was so accustomed to see on His victims. Jude raised her eyebrows imperiously and shook her head. "You told me years ago that You possess no such thing."

A sharply pointed tongue darted from the mouth of the serpent's face, licking the air as if to read its contents. The cunning grin had faded. "Indeed," He hissed, barely audible, "That is true, my little sparrow. I do not. But," He continued, His eyes taking her in greedily, "I feel kindly disposed at the moment. I will allow you a small modicum of lenience. I shall not end you…" His voice, eerie and hollow as a death rattle, reminiscent of the sucking breaths of Dementors, like the ones she encountered two years ago on the Hogwarts Express and she shuddered for the slightest of moments. The Dark Lord watched her, His expression returning slowly to the amused grin He held before. "Yet," He finished with relish. "I may perhaps have a use for you. What do you say to that, Cherub?" 

She gritted her teeth and her jaw tensed at the diminutive names. He was making her feel like a worthless child again, a thing to do His bidding and nothing more. Her voice became low and icy. "What do I say to that?" she laughed bitterly, mocking His pretended offer of a chance. "I'd say go to hell, but You just don't listen to reason, do You?" 

His amused grin was gone from the Snake's face in an instant. Jude winced as a hand clasped her injured wrist roughly from behind, twisting it hard and pinning it behind her back. Another hand grabbed a fistful of her shortly sheered hair, pulling her head back. She knew it was Andrei before he spoke. His mouth was close to her ear and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. 

"Rudeness in unforgivable, little one. Pray remember that and do not try his patience further." He released his hold on her hair but did not relinquish his fierce grip that pinned her broken wrist painfully behind her. She could feel bone grind on bone and the silver bracelet bit into her skin. Gritting her teeth she fought to blink the tears in her eyes away. 

"I force You?" she asked ironically, with a pointed glance back at the vampire restraining her with absolutely no effort on his part, simply waiting for a signal from his Master. "You give the little sparrow much credit indeed. I have the power to force You?" She allowed a bitter laugh to escape her. "My how You've changed." Andrei's grip tightened mercilessly. 

The Dark Lord waved an impatient hand. "Enough of this pointless debate. You have only the power that I allow you to have. Nothing more." He rose slowly from His perch on the dais. He held her glare evenly. "I intend to reclaim what was mine but was lost." He descended the dais and stood before her on the cold marble floor. His snake's eyes, lidless and staring, reflected the dancing torchlight, the fires of hell seemed to flicker within Him. Indeed this was His hell, His fortress where He was surrounded by His demons, plotting and scheming to take back heaven. 

His dark cloak billowed around His thin, wasted form. This was no Lucifer—beauty could not be found within this wrecked body and poisoned soul. This was Lord Voldemort, Jude reminded herself—the one who was defeated by a baby. For all His power, He could never overcome that. He could never conquer His own failings. She smiled. 

Confusion struck her hard when He returned that sinister smile. "I know what you are thinking, little bird." His voice was smooth and low as a whisper. Her smile had faded. "That is not what I spoke of, but yes, I will have my kingdom returned to me as well." He took a step closer. "I spoke of my servant, one who betrayed me and abandoned me years before. I will conquer her first." The lidless eyes glinted maniacally. One shriveled and bony finger touched her chin, raising her face to His. "And she will help me conquer the world."

She jerked away from Him in one fierce motion, her glare fiery, her face set in rage. "I would die before I joined You!"

Voldemort nodded sadly. "Just as I knew you would, Cherub." He turned slowly to face the dais, standing shoulder to shoulder with the insolent girl. One thin finger pointed to the foot of the dais. Jude gasped in horror. Three bodies lay on the ground where He stood only moments before. They had been there the entire time, but she had not noticed them—her every thought, every strand of attention was bent on her Master. Her heart raced. 

She could not see the faces of the victims, but her chest constricted nonetheless. She could not breathe. Next to her, Lord Voldemort snapped His thin fingers. Antonia obediently stepped forward gracefully. At a nod from her lord, she sauntered slowly to the three. As she approached, she gazed on each form in turn with a hungry glare. When her eyes reached the third, she gasped. A look of urgent shock was passed from her to Andrei before Antonia remembered her station…and that her Master's eyes scrutinized her every move. Her alarm did not go unnoticed. 

"Yes," Voldemort hissed to her, relishing her anguish, "It is Domovoi, Antonia. He is dead." 

Jude watched intently as Antonia fought to remain composed, quite a sight as Jude thought this woman beyond any outward betrayal of emotion. "May I ask, my lord…" she stumbled through the words as she tried to smile coolly. "Why?"

Voldemort acquiesced with a slight nod. "He disobeyed me. A filthy little Muggle child from the village was found tonight. He was responsible. Of little consequence, I know," He continued as He watched Antonia's pained expression with delight, "But I do not wish for my presence to be known as of yet. And he acted against my will."

Antonia stared at the body, a sardonic smile on her lips, but Jude saw utter anguish in her eyes as she saw the dark pool of blood beneath him. Andrei's grip on her arm loosened a bit as he too watched Antonia, but Jude could not feel if he empathized with her or if he was merely distracted by the scene. 

Voldemort waved a careless hand. "It is of no matter. Antonia," He hissed and she feigned unconcern, a good act as far as Jude could discern, "You, however, have pleased me." He beckoned her forward and she obeyed. He raised His thin finger once more at the body in the center. "Another was unfortunate enough to disobey me tonight. Mr. Donovan is not dead, however." Jude sucked in a tense breath. It was Trent, his immaculate coat and hair now disheveled, a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth. Jude felt ashamed that she did not own one ounce of pity to waste on him. "I will leave that to you, my faithful servant," He nodded to Antonia, who seemed to brighten a bit at the pronouncement. "The Cruciatus Curse will not have spoiled him. He is yours." Antonia muttered a gracious note of thanks and gave her master a long bow. "Indeed," He hissed, turning to face Jude and her guard. "Antonia, you have gone beyond your duty to me, delivering the intruder with out harm. I understand that he was wounded by your archers, Andrei. A rather critical injury that, had not Antonia healed him, would have claimed him sooner than I wished."

Andrei inclined his head. "It is so, my lord. I shall seek out the errant goblin and punish him accordingly."

Jude's heart was pounding in her ears as she studied the third body over which Antonia knelt. Her black hair cascaded around her as she bent over the body clad in a shabby cloak. She struggled for breath but none came. That was Remus' cloak.

Antonia's red lips were close to the pale forehead, her hand flat against his cheek. She whispered a few words, her dark hair covering her face. Jude wanted to scream, to lunge at the woman, but something kept her silent. Perhaps it was the warning Snape had given her moments before. Perhaps it was fear. 

Antonia stood, tugging the man to his knees. It was confirmed—she stared into the face of her brother. He looked very ill, his pallor gray. His eyes met hers for the smallest of moments and he shook his head almost undiscernibly. She watched as Antonia's ivory fingers slid from his shoulder to his neck. His hands were bound, but he pulled away from her all the same. 

The vampire laughed, silver bell tones illuminating the silence. "But you have me to thank for your life, Sir."

"No. He doesn't." A new voice added itself to the many Jude had already learned to despise. "You couldn't have killed him or saved him by your powers, you demon." Antonia frowned and placed her hands on her hips, vexed. Jude tried to turn to face the speaker, but Andrei held her fast. Still, she did not need to see the person. She knew the voice well, plus the look on Remus' face confirmed her guess. 

"Peter," growled Remus. 

"It's been a while, old friend," Peter answered blandly. 

"You were never my friend," Remus said solemnly. 

Peter blinked, his small, watery eyes betraying absolutely no emotion. "My lord," Peter spoke officiously, disregarding anyone else, "It would have been impossible for Andrei to kill him or Antonia to save him." He walked further into the room and stood at attention before his former friend and the darkly clad woman who regarded him with pointed dislike. "It would have been impossible because this is the only thing that could harm him." Peter pulled back the long folds of his cloak and raised his hand. It glinted gleaming silver in the torchlight. "My friend here is a werewolf." He flexed his fingers, and watched the reflected light dance over the surface. His face was bland, not one emotion illuminated its pudgy features. One silver finger brushed Remus' face and he snarled in pain. 

"Peter!" Jude was struggling against Andrei with every ounce of strength she possessed. "I swear to God, if you do anything to hurt him…"

Peter turned his small eyes on her, a sad smile touching his lips. "Miss Elliot," he simpered with open sarcasm. This was a far cry from the Peter she'd hunted for the better part of a year, the rat that was afraid of his own shadow. "Why would I hurt him? That is your job."

Jude frowned. 

Voldemort strode forward and stood by Peter. "True. My little cherub, I know you would rather die than serve me. Your life is of little consequence to you. I understand that. But," He continued, a ferocious grin spreading across his wasted and drawn features, "Would you be willing to forfeit _his_ life?" 

Jude remained silent. She did not dare speak for she did not know how much longer she could remain in control of herself. Her lips trembled as she watched her brother nod, commanding her not to give in. 

The Dark Lord laughed high and raspy. "I did not believe that you were capable of such frivolous feelings such as friendship, little bird." He continued with a grand sweep of his dark robes. "I may have been mistaken."

"Oh, he's not merely a friend," Peter continued, producing some object from his pocket. He dangled a familiar silver chain from the fleshy fingers of his other hand, giving Jude a hard, stern look. "He is her brother…and only living relative."

Voldemort seemed pleased. "So, my little orphan has found her family. My, that is touching indeed." With a snap the chain flew from Peter's hand to His own skeletal fingers. He examined the trinkets, His lipless smile extending even wider. "Well," He hissed harshly, "I would imagine that you would do almost anything to save your brother's life, wouldn't you, Cherub?"

She looked hopelessly from her Master to Peter. Shaking all over, she closed her eyes wishing that this was just a dream and that she would soon wake up. Nothing had changed when she opened her eyes. She nodded. 

"Excellent," Voldemort hissed slowly. Raising a hand, He beckoned a man that had been standing silent in the shadows who now approached swiftly to do his master's bidding. "MacNair," the Dark Lord addressed him with little ceremony, "I am sure you have about you some suitable way of restraining a werewolf, do you not?" MacNair, whom Jude readily recognized nodded once, produced a set of gleaming silver manacles. Soon, Remus was bound. His face was set sternly and she knew it was for her sake that he bore it silently. 

"My lord," she said quietly, "I've already agreed. This wasn't the deal." Her lip trembled and she was still shaking. 

"The deal," He said judiciously. "Ah, but I do not remember any deal of that sort. You comply and he remains alive. Nothing was stipulated beyond that." 

She turned her angry glare on Peter, who stood as still as stone, looking nowhere in particular, certainly not at her. Voldemort extended a hand to MacNair, who produced a long length of leather. Jude's eyes were wide. 

"My dear," hissed the sinister face as He wound the lengths of the menacing whip around His hand, "I am pleased that you remembered. It was always my belief that punishment that leaves a visible mark makes the greatest impression upon the mind. The lesson is not soon forgotten. The Cruciatus Curse is impressive but does not leave such an impression. I am sure you would agree?"

Jude shook without reserve now. She remembered well. 

"Yet you betrayed me again…that very same night," Voldemort hissed, His smile changing to a scowl, terrifying in its ferocity. "You warned the traitor, you told him to leave instead of delivering him to Me. You were punished accordingly." He let the whip fly and it cracked in mid-air just in front of her. She jumped at the sound. Andrei chuckled softly behind her. Swallowing hard, she tried to remember that she was not ten years old—that she could handle anything He could throw her way. She would not break. 

Remus struggled at his bonds, watching the scene tensely. Antonia stood beside him, a delighted expression of high amusement on her face. Peter still betrayed no emotion, every inch resembling stone, mute and expressionless. 

"That very same night, little Jude. THAT VERY SAME NIGHT!" Another deafening crack exploded in front of her, not touching her, but the effect was the same. She shook like a cornered animal being born down upon by hounds. "When I needed you, my beloved servant, you betrayed me. Like a COWARD…you ran!" CRACK. 

He stepped closer to her. "And you have run from me ever since." He let the whip fall from its swishing movements in the air. Methodically, He wound it once more around His thin hands, never taking an eye from her face. "Tell me, child…are you tired of running yet?" He touched a cold finger to her cheek, pleased to feel her tremble under His touch. "Because there is nowhere you can run that I will not follow. No man, demon or angel can pluck you from my hand!"***

He nodded to Andrei, who seized a tight hold of her injured arm. MacNair stood beside her and grabbed her other arm. She struggled against the men vainly as they drug her to the side of a hall. She could feel His eyes on her back, even though she could no longer see Him. Andrei pinned her against a tall marble column, her face pressed to its cold surface. MacNair wrapped her arms around the column and secured them at the wrist with a devilish grin. Andrei stepped back once the girl was secured and nodded to the Dark Lord. His master signaled and Andrei produced a long, curved knife of Carpathian manufacture, its dark blade of sharp iron reflected the light dully. He seized her by the collar, his blade close to her neck. She could feel the cold sting of the metal. 

Andrei bent close, his lips brushing her ear. "Cine se teme du moarte si-a pierdut viata." It was something she'd heard before. "Fear of death is worse than death itself."

The blade of the knife rent a long tear in the back of her shirt. The ragged cotton hung loosely over her shoulders, revealing the pale skin of her back, crisscrossed again and again by long, thin scars. Andrei sheathed his knife, raising one eyebrow in bland amazement. "So," he spoke smoothly, "The little Râde has tasted death before. I am impressed."

Her forehead leaning against the cold marble, her hands bound in front of her, she regarded him with a cold look. "I have cheated death so many times I begin to fear that I am immortal." Her words were ice and she was pleased to see his elegant expression falter as he registered the insult. He bared his teeth, but at a motion from his master, he backed away, allowing the slight to pass.

The expansive hall echoed His footsteps hollowly as He moved toward her. She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eye, leaning her cheek against the cool marble, repeating to herself that she had conquered this already—she had come through this fire before and had not been consumed. 

"Ten strikes for your first betrayal," He hissed. "Your transgressions have grown since then. Perhaps this time the lesson will stick." 

The next crack of the whip landed squarely across her shoulders, slashing left to right. The searing pain was blinding, almost unbearable. Somehow she managed to take the blow silently, even though her head was spinning and her knees gave way beneath her. The next strike tore the skin at the base of her neck because she had been driven to her knees. Tears came to her eyes and she winced, unprepared for the blow. Blinking back the hot tears, she saw Andrei and Antonia watching voraciously. She felt the warm trickle of blood down her back. 

Another crack, then another. She lost count after seven…eight…nine…

Her bound wrists were now the only thing that held her limp body up, her arms stretched out in front of her, wrists and hands covered in blue and purple bruises, blood dripping from the manacles. Her shoulders twisted at uncomfortable angles, she slumped against the column, her face pressed hard to the cold stone. She blinked feebly, the world around her swimming in and out of focus, and still the blows fell one right after another. Breathing was becoming something of a chore slumped and twisted as she was. All sound had faded into one undefined wash of noise punctuated by her ragged, irregular breaths. The flickering torchlight dimmed and soon was snuffed altogether as her world went black.

***

The expanse of time had been maddening. The few moments since she'd been led from the dungeons seemed to stretch on into eternity. He stood to his feet as he saw the thin streak of light spread down the length of the corridor lined with bar after bar of thick iron, a sign that someone had entered his dark little world. Shadows moved in and out of the light and he pressed his face to the bars to get a better glimpse of the door. It was open and a tall man was talking to a shorter fellow. They both appeared to carry some burden between them, or rather drag some burden. The light was at their backs so he could not get a proper view of either. He listened for their voices. 

The tall man had a rough tone, raspy like sandpaper. "Still breathing, I can hear." 

"Lord Voldemort commanded that we be absolutely sure she's alive before we leave her," the shorter man instructed fussily. He recognized the voice. 

"Well, Pettigrew," the tall man with the rough voice and accent said as he heaped the dead weight onto him, "By all means, see to the Dark Lord's wishes. I am hungry and unless you are willing to volunteer, I have to hunt."

"Demetri," Peter squeaked angrily as he sagged under the full weight of the burden, "You worthless thug! Voldemort will hear of this!" Peter tried his best to sound intimidating, but the man was gone in an instant. He turned dolefully down the dark and dreary corridor, his arms burning under the weight. He did not see the dark gleam of eyes watching his every move. 

"Still threatening to squeal on everyone, Peter?" a cold drawl reached his ears from a cell shrouded in deep shadow just opposite from the one he'd just entered. "You've made quite the career of it, I'd say."

Peter's lip curled in marked dislike but he did not turn to face the man who'd spoken to him. Sighing with immense relief, Peter dropped the dead weight onto the cold, hard ground. "I could say the very same for you, Snape." He wasted little effort in filling the remark with the proper venom. He stretched his arms over his head and turned to the open bars. The look on the other man's face gave him pause for a moment, but then he smiled with mild amusement. 

"Peter," Snape said in a dangerous quiet, "What have you done to her?"

Peter chuckled. "_I_ have done nothing. But did you honestly expect any different? We both know exactly what He is capable of, don't we?" Peter's amusement was gone, replaced by a morose solemnity. "Don't worry, though. He needs her…she remains alive for now. Which is more than I can say for you."

His fingers gripped the bars, the knuckles white with tension. "For God's sake, Peter," he said urgently as he saw Peter back out of the cell and close the bars, "Let me help her!" 

Peter turned his pudgy face and watery little eyes to his old nemesis. "You can't help her," he said quietly. 

"She's bleeding, Peter," he pleaded. "Haven't you any shred of decency anywhere?" Peter shook his head blandly and made his way back up the corridor. "Peter! Be reasonable! You can't just leave her there alone!" 

"She won't be alone for long," Peter said in a soulless monotone. "Ah," he said with mock-surprise, "Here comes her cellmate now." 

A few words of clipped Romanian could be heard and the lock on the door at the end of the corridor made a loud click. The same narrow beam fell across the floor and Snape turned his gleaming black stare to the door. A slender figure stepped through, slick black reflecting the low light—it was a woman clad entirely in black, her hands and face the only visible ivory. She beckoned for a larger figure to follow. It was the figure of a man, he realized as it followed obediently. 

Peter nodded at the woman timidly as she slunk passed him and he pulled the barred door back for her prisoner to join the others. When the man reached Peter, he stopped. Snape watched as Peter tensed his round shoulders, his little watery eyes darting anywhere but the man's own stare. Snape also recognized this man and a sinking feeling crept replaced any hope of escape. Remus Lupin stared evenly at his one-time friend before continuing forward into the cell. 

The dark figure of the woman, Antonia, slammed the door shut without effort, her gleaming smile shining in the faint light. With one hand on her hip, she wagged one finger at the cell. "Stay," she said sweetly as if commanding a puppy, "Good boy!" She clapped with pretended glee and favored her prisoner with a deceptively fond look before gliding back up the corridor and out of sight. 

Remus ignored the woman, his attention riveted on the body of his little sister, covered in blood and not moving. He would give everything he had to block her screams from his memory, to erase this sight from his mind. The biting sting of the silver manacles against his wrist was nothing to the pain that that sight gave him. Nineteen angry red gashes raced from one side of her small form to the other, from one thin shoulder to the other. He bent over her and brushed her short, ragged hair away from her forehead. Gently, he gathered her into his arms and held her close to him. Her breaths came in steady but ragged rhythm and the wound on her arm seemed to have ceased bleeding. He rested his chin against her head and stared into the darkness. 

"Peter," Remus said quietly, but he was sure his friend heard him—there was nothing else to hear in the deafening silence, "I could have forgiven you for anything else."

Peter blinked several times, but his face remained stony, unmoved. Soon he turned to follow Antonia out of the corridor and back to the world reserved for those not damned.

Time passed in immeasurable gaps. Snape watched the pair silently. Huddled together in the frightening, cold dark, they resembled quite closely a more jaded and world wise Hansel and Gretel. The silence was broken only when Remus spoke. 

Snape was a bit taken by surprise. Indeed he did not know that the other man was aware of his presence. 

"Amazing," he said wearily, his lip bleeding and cheek swollen, "How easily it comes."

Snape said nothing. 

"Worrying," Remus said dully. "I never said thank you. To you," he said, turning his gray eyes on the darkened cell opposite him. "For looking after her. I can never repay you for that."

Snape leaned his head back against the stone wall, disgusted with the prospect of a nice chat with a fellow he regarded less than favorably. "No futile gestures. You make it sound as if one or all of us will die soon. I don't want your thanks if that sets your mind at ease."

"I just…" Remus continued but thought better of it. "I know you didn't do it for me. That's all…I just wanted you to know that I appreciated everything you and Dumbledore have done for her. I know what its like not to expect second chances."

Snape allowed another long silence to swallow time. "Maybe I understand the value of second chances…" 

"I can't believe this is the sort of life she used to have…it's just a bit of a shock. Did you know that this happened before?" His shining silver eyes were focused piercingly on the opposite cell once more. 

"What?" Snape asked with only mild interest. 

"The…the lashes. She had scars," he said quietly, "A lot of scars. Voldemort said that it happened the night he killed James and Lil…the Potters. She betrayed him by tipping off a traitor…something of that nature." He shook his head in disbelief, "I guess I still find it hard to understand that she used to live like this."

Snape's expression had darkened as he sat in thought. This happened before…the night Voldemort lost his powers…because she betrayed Him for a traitor… He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. There were a million things that, if given the chance, he would do over. But it is unrealistic to dwell on those things because one was not likely to ever be given such an opportunity. However when one found oneself alone in a dark and damp cell with nothing better to do…

In the opposite cell, the sound of motion pulled his attention away from his thoughts. Jude's head rested against Remus' shoulder as he dozed for a moment. In one flicker of movement, however, she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright, a confused and terrified look on her pale and drawn face. Despite how utterly stiff and exhausted and painful she felt, she pushed away from her brother and attempted to get to her feet urgently. 

"Whoa!" Remus cautioned her, astonished. "Take it easy, Jude. What's wrong?" He held her steadily by the forearms, her shirt stiff with dried blood over one arm and sticky with fresh blood all over. She was gasping for breath. 

"I…need…that…ring!" She said frantically fighting to speak faster than her ragged gasps would allow. "The ring!" she said, turning to face Snape. "The one Trent took! It…it was on my chain!"

"Calm down," Snape demanded. "We'll get it back, but you need to relax, Jude," he said, trying to sound confident that he could do as he promised. 

"Peter has it now," Remus reminded her. "We'll figure something out. I promise."

She sank back to the ground, her head cradled against her brother's chest, gasping and shaking. "I know what He's going to try to do. I know…I saw it…I need…that ring." The words did not come as fast or as urgently now and her eyes drooped, losing their feverish, fervent animation. Soon she was asleep once more, her face twisted in a sleepy frown. Remus wore a dark and confused expression as he stared into the shadows. 

"Do you really think she saw anything?" Remus asked after he was assured by her steady breathing that she slept. 

Snape shrugged in the dark. "There exists an unnaturally strong connection between your sister and the Dark Lord. I would trust her."

"I do," he said firmly to the shadows lurking just beyond the light. He rested his chin once more against her forehead and closed his eyes. "I trust you."

**Roll Call: **My humblest apologies for the interminably long wait. Between college graduation, moving, an ongoing job search that really does a number on one's self esteem, and volunteering at Nimbus-2003 (which was a huge success!), I allowed my story to fall by the wayside. But I am back and hopefully the production time will lessen for subsequent chapters. Again, I apologize profusely for the wait. Thanks to you, my readers—you lot are the best! **Black Dragon (I'm glad you haven't decided to give up on me! It means a lot), **Emjay** (Wow! You and Tara made me feel so controversial! Yes, I believe everyone is entitled to their criticism and I VERY MUCH appreciate your honesty about the last chapter. I felt it did need some work, but unfortunately I don't have the time to tweak it. I hope you enjoyed this one more), **Torifire****** (Welcome! I hope you stick around for the rest of the fic. I wrote this for the express purpose of demonstrating the power that OC's could have! There are a number of great ones out there…if you know where to look!). **

_  
*From the parable of the Lost Sheep, Matthew __18:12__-14. This is the converse of Christ's words—Christ actively sought His missing lamb while Voldemort's words denote an arrogant pride that his lamb returned to him through no effort of his own. _

_**From the parable of the Prodigal Son, Luke __15:11__-32. The Prodigal Son returned to his Father, a symbol of salvation. This was used in contrast, Jude is clearly facing the opposite—damnation._

_***Modified from Romans __8:38__-39 "For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." This is also used in the converse meaning. _


	51. Thirty Pieces of Silver

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. 

Chapter Fifty-One: Thirty Pieces of Silver

'Just when the sky runs out of rain 

_Just when the sun runs out of light_

_Just when the earth is ill with pain_

_Just when your body's out of fight_

_I will be there_

_I will be the smallest piece in everything_

_And I would give my life before I break this promise to you._

_Melt into me_

_Don't you want to be the one that lasts forever?_

_I'll be your everlasting_

_And enemies may take your will _

_But they won't last forever_

_I'll be your sword and shield and…_

_I'll be your sword_

_I'll be your shield.'_

_'Sword and Shield,' Sister Hazel_

                The stone was ice against her cheek. Her mouth felt dry and her face flushed. With no other wish but to shut out the world and retreat once more into a blissful unconsciousness, something more wanted to be alert, to know what was happening around her. She fought the urge to open her eyes and to look around, but stubborn curiosity would not allow it. So she looked and saw…nothing. Blackness. 

                Her hair was plastered in short, ragged clumps to her forehead with a cold sweat. The shivering reminded her of the pain in every inch of her body, from a punishment she remembered well. The night before came back to her with startling clarity. And only then did she realize that she was alone. She raised her head to peer into the silent darkness around her, feeling something scratchy brush her hot cheek. Pulling herself up with not a little help from the wall next to her, she looked down. Wrapped around her shivering and shaking limbs was a gray woolen cloak. She did not recognize it but was grateful for its warmth nonetheless. She tugged it closer around her, wanting to cry out, wanting for someone to reassure her that she was not alone. She sucked in a deep breath but the pain was stifling. 

                Her head ached fiercely and her shoulders were stiff. Her arm throbbed with every beat of her heart but was no longer the sharp, debilitating pain that it had been. Realization dawned then that she may very well be able to use magic—the pain in her wrist was no longer so distracting. She pulled her left hand out from beneath the folds of the cloak, her heart racing with the prospect of a reversal of misfortune. But just as soon as the light of that hope was kindled, it was violently snuffed. She had not been shivering from the mere chill of the damp, stone dungeon. Encircling her wrist was the dull glinting metal that dashed her hopes for good. A bracelet of adamantine replaced her silver one. She heaved a great, disappointed sigh and slumped back against the wall, ignoring any pain. 

                She hugged the gray cloak tighter as she shivered in the darkness. Her brother was nowhere around. The sick feeling of dread made it difficult to swallow. She didn't want to guess as to the reason for his absence and tried in vain to block the bleak suppositions from her head. Still she could not fight the growing panic. She felt all the helplessness of the situation—she could protect no one from Him, not even herself. 

                The thought was as caustic as acid. Her frown turned fiercely determined and she reached out in the darkness. Her fingers felt the biting cold of the iron bars and she gripped them with all the strength she had left. She grabbed another bar with the numb fingers of her left hand. They did not obey her as they should have, but still she was able to pull herself up and steady her wobbling legs. Her head swam sickly as if she'd spent the night in the company of a friendly bottle of vodka. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the cool metal, her forehead feverishly warm. Waiting for her head to stop spinning, she heard something that caused her weary, darkly circled eyes to fly open at once and search the darkness. She met the stare of shining black eyes that she recognized with a wave of relief. 

                "Where is he?" she asked despairingly, not heeding a word he said to her before. 

                "I do not know," he replied truthfully. "They took him some time ago. I know not what for." Professor Snape's answer was bland. "It is reassuring, however, to see you on your feet so soon."  
                She ignored his curious tone. "I have to find him. We have to get out of here."

                "Why had you never told me?" His voice was laced with a bitter, accusing tone. "You never spoke of that night. Not to me. Why?"

                "What are you talking about?" she asked, pretending not to know. 

                "You know very well, Miss Elliot." She stiffened at the marked and distanced civility. "October the Thirty-first, 1981, if you insist that I should be so precise."

                She was silent.

                "You were always stubborn. I wonder if you knew what the price of staying really meant," he said, almost as if to himself alone.

                "And what's that supposed to mean?" Jude demanded with as much force as exhaustion would allow. She sank back to the ground, leaning on the bars. She dragged the woolen cloak over her and closed her eyes to the hostile darkness. She wished she could shut out the words so easily. 

                "I mean that even if you knew the price of letting me go that night, you would have stayed. I see that now." He sounded matter-of-fact, unaffected. "Even though he could very well have killed you, you could not leave. It took his near destruction to lessen his hold over you."

                "I know you could never understand, but it was impossible for me to leave Him that night…I had to stay. It was the smart thing to do, it was logical," she said with emphasis, as if trying to convince someone. "I'm no masochist, trust me. I would have left if I could have." She paused for a moment. "You said 'lessen His hold', didn't you?" She didn't wait for a reply. "You don't believe that I could possibly…" She could not breathe and her hands were shaking even as they clutched the bars that supported her. When she spoke again, her voice was just above a whisper. "Where has your faith in me gone?"

                In the dark, beyond the pale of her vision, he ran a weary hand over his eyes, his shoulders bent under an invisible burden. "You need to prepare yourself for hard choices, Jude."

                She lifted her head, startled a bit, but thankful, for the return to informality, the sharp coldness in his words softened slightly. 

                "Weakness is the key he seeks," he assured her. "And the moment he feels you falter, he's got you." 

                "I won't, don't you trust me?" she begged. 

                "I trust that you would do anything within your power to keep him safe," he said discerningly. "Your brother means a lot to you, does he not?"

                She blinked, her eyelids seemingly sandpaper against her dry eyes. Gritting her teeth, she refused to answer with a childlike stubbornness. 

                "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was no longer accusing. "About the scars, Jude."

                Shaking her head, she answered numbly, "No reason to."

                "I owe you much," was the reply. 

She allowed her head to fall forward to rest on her knees. "That's why I chose not to speak of it. I know what it's like to be in debt to someone else." Slowly, she looked up, but not at him. With a resigned sigh, she abandoned any further explanation, turning her attention instead on the wall directly to her right. She pulled the shining clasp from the foreign cloak and went to work on the stone in which the rusty hinges of her prison's bars were attached. She worked silently and patiently at the aged stone. She bit her lip in concentration, frowning as she worked at her task. 

"What are you doing?"

He did not think she would reply as she simply worked on in quiet. She muttered an impatient "ouch" and removed her glare only momentarily from the wall to look upon him. Sticking her injured thumb in her mouth, she glanced away quickly. "I'm doing what I came here to do." She set back to work with a more determined expression. In no time the soft metal of the pin was bent and nearly useless, her fingers now doing the chief of the work. Bloodied and scraped raw, more than one nail having been ripped down to the quick, her fingers still flew at the task and she seemed to no longer feel pain. 

"It would be easier," he ventured to say, "I would think, to pick the lock on the door instead of trying to dig your way through solid rock."

Bending closer to the wall, she peered sharply through the dark, the want of light making her task that much more difficult. "Easier," she answered blandly, "Yes, if it were a simple padlock or a spring. I'd be out in two seconds. But this is archaic…It would take hours even if I knew what I was bloody up against, which I don't. But," she added with the barest thread of hope in her voice, "hinges, they're basically all the same. These happen to be just pins, but they've been recessed precisely so the prisoner can't do what I plan to do."

He merely shook his head and leaned back against his own prison wall, closing his eyes. 

After the passing of some time, she had a considerable mound of rubble and dust covering the floor and her knees. Finally she had reached the first iron pin fixing the door to the wall and had created enough space to remove it. Dropping the mangled clasp, she attempted to pry the pin out of its hold, but her effort was in vain. "Damn it," she swore softly, her shoulders slumping forward. The hinge was well rusted and her bloody fingers could not extract it. It was as fixed in place as was she. For a little while longer, at least. Gritting her teeth with disdainful determination, she assured herself that she would get out. No prison had held her before—no prison of stone and iron, that is—and she did not think she could accustom herself to chains. 

The very second that she raised her hand to her hopeless work again a noise was heard echoing from the far end of the corridor. Someone was coming. 

She stopped her futile motions, her plan of escape having momentarily been abandoned. News of her brother was her only object and she was soon satisfied on that point. A new figure presented itself at her prison door. Trying hard to mask her work, she stood on shaky legs and moved to stand at the bars, hiding her bloody hands in the folds of the gray cloak, staining the wool crimson in spots that had not already been marked by her blood. Her head was spinning and she grasped the iron hard with her scraped and scratched fingers to keep her steady. 

As the figure came into view, she found to her surprise that she recognized the man. The frequent waxing and waning of the torchlight deepened the shadows on his pale face and gave more of a golden hint to the soft waves of his blond hair. A sorrowful yet stern Apollo.

"Who are you?" She couldn't help the impertinence of her question. It was said before she could reflect upon its prudence. She had the grace, however, to look slightly ashamed at such a misstep. 

The man gave her the barest of smiles, more amused by the question than insulted. He studied her for sometime as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. She had to release her hold on the bars as he pulled it open. Wavering a little, she stood in front of him, not daring to blink. He was one of them. He watched her with equaled veracity, but with no fear. 

"Michael is my name." His words were so unexpected that she hardly marked their meaning. To her English ear the French accent was unmistakable. She regarded him with an even more wary eye. He was not of the dark haired Romanian race she had already learnt to avoid if possible. And something else about his expression was different. The haughty, disdainful air was gone. He seemed sad, worn and tired. "I have come to escort you to the Dark Lord." He stood aside from the open door and made a slight, formal bow. "If you please."

She frowned, supremely mistrustful. Placing one foot tentatively in front of the other, she did as she was told. With uneasy glances behind her she made her way with difficulty into the corridor, every step reminding her of barely forgotten, blinding pain. She hugged the cloak tighter around her and sucked in a determined breath. As she passed Professor Snape's cell, she paused. Her dull gray eyes turned involuntarily in his direction. Turning to the man behind her, she reached out to steady herself on the cold iron bars, glaring at him with such mistrust and hate that he paused as well, a strange curiosity marking his features. 

"If I don't want to go to Him…what then?" she said, raising her chin in defiance. "What makes you think I won't run?" He stepped forward and she summarily backed out of his reach, glancing sideways, catching the cold glint of the professor's stare in the darkness. Michael took another step forward and smiled, still staring at her curiously. 

"I know you will not," he stated, his glance following her own. "Because I trust that you are not as foolish as you are young, ma petite amie." His hand closed over the same bar she held on to, his fingers gripping it hard enough for the knuckles to whiten. 

She swallowed and stumbled back a few more steps. But she forced herself to stand her ground, knowing that if she gave another inch, her courage would flag and her plan would fail. "Are you sure you can bet all on my allegiance to him?" She nodded provokingly in Snape's direction. He moodily shook his head, watching her from the darkness of his cell. He knew what she was doing, but doubted that it would work even in the least capacity. Michael only smiled. 

"It is not I you must convince you care not for this man…or the other." His smile grew broader as he saw her flinch. The woolen cloak had slipped from her shoulders and she stood in front of him, frozen and stunned. Her hands, streaked red, hung by her side and she shivered with nothing more between her and the biting cold but a bloodstained t-shirt. "You must convince the Dark Lord that they mean nothing to you. And it would be in vain, ma petite amie, for it matters not." His look changed suddenly from bland interest in the strange creature before him, to a hopelessly resigned pallor. Jude noticed every line in his weary face, every worn fiber of his voice. "We all of us die…sooner or later." He walked toward her and beheld her with a mixture of pity and sternness before he bent to pick up the gray cloak. Replacing it on her shaking shoulders, careful not to cause any more pain, he attempted a smirk that was meant to hide any concern from her piercing stare. "You've gotten blood on my favorite cloak."

She frowned, still holding him under her scrutiny, noting that it began to upbraid him. She did not frighten him but she made him uneasy, that much was apparent. When he beckoned her to turn and to continue on their way, she obeyed without a word. 

After the first flight of stone steps she found it necessary to accept the offer of his arm. Despite her protests, she was weak and could not have made it far on her own. And although she did not look forward to another parley with Him, she had to know about Remus. Moments of silent deliberation were broken by a strange observation from her stoic companion. She had not realized that he was staring intently at her hand, bloodied fingers clasping his sleeve. 

"You should not attempt it," he said unblinkingly. "There is more keeping you and your friends here than bars and locks." 

His words caught her and she glanced up quickly at his face, which was a strange mix of vicious desire and harsh restraint as he stared fixedly at her small hand. She withdrew it from his arm with a look of horror and disgust, stumbling with impatience to separate herself from such a recklessly violent creature. The wall against her back reminded her that there was nowhere else to go in this dark, deserted corridor. The blood pounding in her veins caused her head and her wrist to throb in painful unison. 

"Stay back," she panted through ragged breaths. "You're sadly mistaken if you think I haven't got any fight left for you!"

The pained expression on his face surprised her. His shoulders fell with the weight of unspoken rebukes as he watched her fighting not to cower in front of him, summoning the last of her courage in the face of inexpressible evil. He looked unsure of what to say, but he no longer seemed threatening in her eyes. She recognized that look…and it tempted her to pity him. She would have had not her logic persuaded her to believe in no tricks. Her knees gave out and she felt the sharp pain of the impact with hard stone, but she did not take her eyes off of him. 

He blinked, not wanting to remove his gaze from hers, but unsure as to how much longer he could bear it. With a deep breath he summoned his stoic self-possession, yet a hint of shame and revilement of the fear he inspired in her remained and refused to be chased away. After a moment he extended his hand to her, offering to help her to her feet, but she refused it, pulling herself up with trembling arms, staying as close to the wall as possible and never removing her eyes from his face. 

Carefully his glare raked the corridor and, discerning that they were completely alone, he lowered his hand and his gaze. As if speaking to the floor, he addressed her in quiet tones and did not look up from the stone beneath his feet. "My sincerest apologies if I frightened you, Mademoiselle. My advice was kindly meant," said he, chancing a glance at her astonished expression. She frowned, clutching the cloak around her shoulders with one hand and supporting herself painfully with her injured arm on the wall, staring with complete and utter disbelief. "Forgive me, I should not have spoken at all. Come," he said with more self-command, "We are expected presently. To delay would be foolish." He raised his hand as if to offer her further assistance but thought better of it. Instead, he beckoned her to proceed on her own before him. It was only a few more steps to their destination.

At the great wooden doors that she had entered just the night before, she paused, dread chilling her more acutely than even the adamantine could. She felt equal to facing nothing that she would encounter there. He reached for the handle as she stared dumbly ahead, unable or unwilling to open it. He pulled the door open a fraction and then paused, for he felt her hand on his and, looking down, he saw that it was so. He looked to her with a questioning glance. 

"What will I find behind these doors?" she asked in a feeble voice. "My brother…I know he's there." She swallowed hard. "Tell me."

His expression was determinedly unfeeling and stony, but it was an effort that showed. When he answered he tried to sound disaffected, but feared he failed. "You have difficult choices ahead of you, ma petite amie. Therefore," he said in his cold stoic's voice, "Be wise and do not allow sentiment to guide you. Remember," he placed a hand over hers as it grasped his wrist but he removed it quickly as if burned, "It is not I you have to convince." He pulled the heavy door open wide. 

She entered the large hall with trembling steps and did not want to open her eyes. But she forced herself to look and when she saw, all restraint left her. To run to him was not in her power, but she moved with as steady a pace as she could, her limbs and mind numb with complete shock. Her breath caught in her chest as she fell to her knees before him. She did not hear snide laughter, she did not see the sinister faces, she saw only saw him lying on the ground, heard his shallow breathing. She put a hand to his face and found he was yet warm, not dead. She breathed a sigh of relief and ignored the pain it caused her. 

Taking his hand in her own, she rested her chin upon their entwined fingers as she brushed away a lock of his sandy hair. There was blood on her fingers, and not her own. She forced herself to look from her fingers to his face once more. The golden light of the large hall belied the paleness of his skin, but she did not allow herself to be deceived. The weight of guilt burdened her, but little did she know how heavy it was to become. She grasped his hand tightly in hers, vainly trying to keep her chin from trembling and the hot tears from spilling down her cheeks. The touch of smooth metal attracted her notice and with a horror-stricken and terrified expression, recognition illuminated her wearied and confused features. It was her silver bracelet, clasped tightly around his arm, the skin around it red and raw, streaked in some places by the crimson stain of blood. She felt ill, angry and culpable all in one turn, her gray eyes, dark and volatile as the clouds that herald a storm, turned to his face once more for some sign…some absolution. 

And like a child she reached down and shook him by the shoulders, gently at first, but with every second of silence, she grew more desperate to hear his voice, to be reassured. "Remus," she called to him, "wake up! Please, wake up!" When he did not answer, she spoke again, her tone miserably pitiful, but she did not care who heard. A relief, however, nearly as dizzying as the panic itself was felt when he finally heeded her pleas and opened his eyes. A smile that did not reach the rest of her countenance, still clouded by despair, was all the thanks she was able to give before a familiar voice demanded her notice.   
                "How charming." The silky tone spoke the words unconvincingly; obviously the feelings were much the opposite. But the triumph was unmistakable. "I am exceedingly gratified that my faith in your attachment was justified." 

Jude's smile disappeared swiftly, returning to the angry, mistrusting mask she had worn since her arrival in that cold country. She gritted her teeth with suppressed rage as she beheld the man that inhabited the lowest ranks of her esteem. There were few, she supposed, that she disliked more than Lucius Malfoy. He sneered with pleasure at her open loathing and disdain, at her impotent rage. With a smooth, almost bored gesture, he motioned to someone posted behind her. A moment later two hands were clasped firmly around her arms, hauling her off of her knees and dragging her back several steps. She did not look back, but kept her eyes on Malfoy. His lips curled into a mocking smile, his glare leaving her and resting on the man at his feet. A sharp kick was delivered to his side, bringing on a violent coughing fit. "On your feet, beast!" he ordered, a look of supreme disgust on his face. He seemed preparing to deliver another blow when Remus staggered with difficulty to his feet and shakily stood his ground. His arms remained wrapped around his middle and the rise and fall of his shoulders alone seemed to attest to pain. His face, however, was a mask of stony resolve. He did not look to his sister even though her eyes were immovably fixed upon his, so like and yet so very different. 

"Don't hurt him!" she yelled as she watched anxiously. "Please." The word tasted bitter—she was begging of a man she knew could not feel sympathy and she promised herself that she would never cower to. But like a child awaiting inevitable punishment, cower she did as he raised his wand to her brother, an amused grin overspreading his face. "He's nothing to you, Lucius!" she spat angrily. "Just let him go."

Lucius' grin slowly and sinisterly spread, illuminating his face with a hellish fascination. "True," he said, turning back to the subject with disdain, "he is nothing to me." His sharp eyes returned once more to his prey. "But he seems to be of some value to you."

Jude's grim, serious countenance did not change as she stared into such reckless hate. "Lay another hand on him and you will learn, Lucius Malfoy, that there is no limit to the lengths I will go to hunt you down." Her voice was flint, her expression steel, but Lucius could not take the small creature seriously when he placed so much faith in the very virtues she lacked. She was not a match for him, he knew it even if she still preferred to remain blind. 

He chuckled softly, the mocking laughter growing in depth and resonance. "You have a lot of hate for one so young, little urchin." He seemed exceedingly diverted by her show of heroic blustering. "But you do not understand its power…" The grin disappeared like a wisp of smoke in a high gale. "There is too much of ridiculous love clouding your silly, young mind, girl! Hate would have been a valuable lesson for you to learn, but you were never the apt student."

She was grinding her teeth, biting back the hot rage, but just barely able to contain it. "I have learned to hate," she hissed, "but not from you. There is nothing I could learn from such a snake as you."

The iron grip around her arms increased and the voice, speaking quiet prudence in her ear told her that her captor was Michael. "Hold your tongue, Mademoiselle," was his whispered advice and it sounded like good sense. Jude, however, did not feel inclined to follow good sense at the moment. Her rage was not a quiet one and demanded a more reckless outlet. She ignored the man who would speak as a friend but act as an enemy. 

Lucius was chuckling amusedly once more. "Hate me, despise me, but do not suppose yourself to be above arts." He gave her a look of significant penetration. "You forget what you once were…what you still are. A spy, a trickster, an artist, a master of deception." He turned away from her with an expression that mirrored his cunning thoughts. "If it came to it, you would do anything to save your neck."

Wishing to deny it was the strongest impulse she felt, even though her logical mind accorded it the recognition of truth. She had always used her innocent child's face to mask her base tactics—thievery, lying, cheating, deceiving—it was her element, like water to a fish, or the wind under a bird's wings. It was what she was good at, how she had gotten by on her own, how she had survived. The anger boiled within her, the mercury rising with every word of truth he spoke. "I would rather die than become a deceiver like you!" she at last spat vehemently. 

He nodded judiciously. "I understand what little value you place on your own head. It is probably the only good sense you have thus demonstrated." His eyes, full of feline rapacity, slid sideways to his prey. Remus held his gaze evenly with a stony indifference, striving to be the model of courage. "But at what price do you value his?"

The wand in his hand was raised instantly to the man's chest and the curse was spoken before Jude even realized what was happening. The low, mocking laughter of the others in the room, the inhuman howls of the victim, and her own screams and pleading cries created a surreal din. Everything seemed to happen unnaturally slow, but incredibly fast at the same time.

"Stop it!" she heard herself screaming as she struggled beneath Michael's grip, but it sounded as if her voice came from far off, the pain the struggle caused her was dulled and foreign-feeling, as if she wasn't even present, but watching from some distance. She did not realize that she had put up such a fight that Andrei, who'd been standing nearby watching the scene with Antonia, had joined him in an effort to subdue the wild creature. They succeeded in their aim, however, bringing her to her knees. She had obviously reached the extreme limit of her strength, the fight having spent itself, but the spirit to struggle still burned low, like glowing embers. 

She let her head fall forward, only now feeling the oppressive weight of two grown men violently suppressing any efforts of movement. Her small frame could take little more, and her will was just as exhausted. 

"I'll do whatever you want," she heard herself give in with a tiny voice. "Just stop. Please, don't hurt him anymore." The sound of torture had ceased and she knew she must open her eyes to be fully satisfied that Remus was safe for the moment. But she did not want to look. 

"Whatever _I want?" Lucius spoke to her as if she was a naïve child. "No, no. It is not my command you must await." A sinister smile and a cunning light in his eye gave him such a triumphant aspect that despite her weakness and dejected spirit, Jude felt all of the familiar indignation rise once more to a fury. "Will you," he proposed in a supremely haughty manner, knowing she could not refuse, "declare loyalty unto the Dark Lord and do his bidding?" _

Andrei wound his fingers through her short hair, drawing her head back with violent strength, forcing her to look up to Malfoy as he addressed her. Lucius cocked his head to the side in agitation as silence prevailed and her answer remained unspoken. He took one deliberate step backwards and then another until he stood over the unconscious form of her brother. The only movement he made was the rise and fall of his chest, which alone denoted life. Lucius tapped his chin with his wand. "What will it be? Your loyalty or his death?" 

"I declare my loyalty," she said in a quiet monotone, unconscious of even the words she spoke. "I am His to command."

"Excellent," came the low hiss, the unmistakable tones of His voice as He stepped from behind the two that unnecessarily held her. She kept her eyes sternly forward, her face neutral as if she had heard nothing. The familiar dull hollow in her chest reminded her what it felt like to sell her soul. 

Voldemort glided down the length of the hall as if He did not walk, but contrived some unearthly method of movement. He came to stand next to Lucius and surveyed His reconciled protégé with a lipless, snake-like smile. She beheld Him with none of the horror or terror that so filled her the night before, even those feelings would have been most natural at the moment. She was oddly calm, satisfied with the thought that, come what would, she had preserved her brother's life for the moment and was quietly constructing a plan to see this through. She knew she was lost, but what of that? She'd been beyond the hand of salvation before and had not flinched. 

The Dark Lord gave a significant glance to His thugs. She was hauled roughly to her feet and spun around to face the door. Andrei shoved her forward and she stumbled, but recovered her footing and did not fall. Sharply glaring at his companion, Michael grabbed her arm with little of his former roughness and led her from the room. 

"You should not have spoken so rashly in there," Michael said after a long pause and considerable distance had been put between them and the throng that remained in the great hall with Voldemort. 

Jude narrowed her eyes suspiciously, yanking her arm out of his grip and giving him a scornful look. "Whose side are you on?" The words were angry and contemptuous. "It seems to me like you keep forgetting that you're my enemy."

With a sharp glare up and down the quiet corridor, he shoved her roughly through the first door on the left, slamming it closed behind them. "Watch what you say," he admonished her in a hissing whisper. "You never know who is listening!" 

She opened her mouth to make a defensive reply, but the words never came out. What he said next surprised her. 

"I am no one's enemy!" he hissed into the sepulchral silence of the room. Ghostly dust and spectral neglect haunted every surface. "But everyone has only ever seen me as theirs!"

"Perhaps that is because you stood up to be counted with the man that would love nothing more than to see the world bend under His sword!"

"Perhaps," he retorted bitterly, mocking her, "you should bend. It is wise that we should all bend!" 

"No!" Jude shook her head adamantly, the palm of one hand pressed flat against a long table. "That I promised myself I would never do again!"

He smirked, crossing his arms against his chest. "No? Then what I have just witnessed was a trick of my imagination?"

She pressed her lips together into a thin line. "It is easy for a little sapling to bend," she said shrewdly, "but He forgets that I am not a child anymore."

Considering her words, he watched her closely. "Was it really that terrible? You could have everything you've ever wanted." He lowered his voice, piercing but quiet. "You would not have been such an exile as you are now."

"Who says I am such an exile?" she asked wearily, tiring quickly of the volley of words, but unwilling to give in. 

He returned her shrewd glance. "People who should know." His answer was vague but she believed him, as something in his voice urged her to take him at his word. "Yes, I know your story, ma petite amie."

"Well," she said blandly, "exile or not, I would rather have nothing than anything He could offer me."

Eyebrows arched with intrigue, he gave her a piercing stare. "Not even freedom?" Sitting carelessly upon the table that held her up, he seemed content to wait her out. Call her bluff. As two reasonable people, he had no doubt that she would soon see reason.

"Freedom from guilt," he clarified with an easy disregard at her clouded expression. "From accusation…you could do anything you want, or that is what I understand from it. Revenge, retribution, whatever it is you want, it could be yours."

She sniffed, her countenance marked by distrust. "And at what price? At what price would you buy such freedom, Michael?" Her cold, gray eyes held his steadily, stabbing his indifference as easily as a knife could pierce flesh. "The price of your soul?" Her words were flint, her voice steel. "I have bartered mine before. Its value is not what it used to be. But something tells me that you have not parted with yours yet…" 

Knees trembling under her weight, she gave up her charade, placing both hands on the table before she completely collapsed. "Why," she continued, less sure than she had sounded before, "do I get the feeling that you want something more? Why do you help me?"

He looked away from her, and she could see his jaw muscles working tensely, his face impressively pensive. "Who says I want to help you?"

Shoulders rising and falling with every uneasy breath, she continued to examine the strange creature across from her. "You struggle, I can see it. Conscience is a tough thing to kill…and I see yours has not yet been defeated."

Springing off of the table, he stood rigidly in front of her, glaring down with his frigid, blue eyes, appearing all the more like the cold marble Apollo, come to life to deliver judgment. "You speak frankly for one at such a disadvantage. I would remember to whom I speak if I were you."

Jude had enough of cowering to those who were bigger and stronger than herself; she stood up straighter. "You may intimidate me all you wish, I have nothing left to lose; nothing left for you to take!" With another ragged gasp, she winced at a pain in her side. She turned back to the table, her support. "Tomorrow," she added in a small voice, as if speaking to herself alone, "I will openly betray the people who've put their trust in me. Believe me, Monsieur, you could not possibly strike a harder blow." With a grim expression, she stared off, her eyes fixed on a point beyond that room and that dreary castle. "Exposing myself for the monster that I am will be more than enough."

"It is that very look," Michael said hollowly after several moments of stoic silence, "the look I have seen on your face, the look on the faces of those whom you will betray." He closed his eyes and turned away from her. She imagined that she saw him shudder. "I cannot bear it," he confessed with some difficulty. Momentarily, he glanced up and caught her curious stare. "And I believe you know what I mean."

Quietly, she answered him truthfully. "I do."

"It is in the eyes, Mademoiselle." His face looked pained, tortured. "The terror of their souls, I could see it…I can still see it."

Jude blinked back the dizzying sensation of déjà vu, transported by his words to another time and another place. She could see the terrified astonishment on his face as she pronounced the words that killed him. She shook her head violently, vainly attempting to dislodge the intruding memories. "I see it, too," she whispered in the terrified voice of a child. She wanted nothing more than to make it go away. But it would not. It was not long, however, before she diverted the flood of her terror and shame into the canals of anger and hatred, fueling the rapids of her rage. "He made me into that person!" she yelled, slamming both hands onto the flat surface of the table. Michael's eyes darted to her face apprehensively, yet curious, intrigued. "I despised her these past fifteen years! Now," she continued to bellow like a thing possessed, "I must become her again to save my brother…to save my friend!"

"It is a bitter choice, for certain," he said evenly, still watching her face carefully. 

"A bitter choice?" she asked in a rage, bending all her anger upon him. He did not flinch this time as her sharp glare was leveled on his. "I have no choice! What's your excuse?"

"You have a choice," he reasoned. "An unhappy one, yes. Your decision buys you time alone, but not clemency." 

"And you?" she asked harshly. "Do you buy clemency?"

He gritted his teeth, she could see it in the tense set of his jaw. "What will you do with your time then, little one? Will you waste it by slinging insults at me?"

An apprehensive glance from the young woman told him that a fierce debate raged in her mind. The shrewd glare told him all he needed to know: she was calculating his character, if he would be a worthy ally or a sly double-dealer. "I have a plan," she confessed, deciding that she might as well trust him, "that may prove salvation, for my companions, at least."

"You will defy Him even now?" he asked, relaxing a little, but remaining rigidly detached from her. 

"Yes," was her reply, as inflexible as iron.

"It is madness." He shook his head at the idea of defying the inevitable. "You know this."

She looked resolved, not desperate, but resolute. "Don't you see? I have to try to make it right. I could not bear to see my brother look at me like that, as the man I murdered did."

An unexpected confession. He straightened, a penetrating look betraying his surprise at her words melting into an unspoken understanding. He nodded in agreement.

"Will you help me?" she asked, half-expecting a solemn no. 

"I risk much," he sighed resignedly. "For the mere principle, though, I must. I understand you, ma petite amie, as I doubt you even realize." He rubbed his eyes wearily with one hand. "What is it you ask?"

"I came here with a ring…"

The sound of the door opening had them both on their feet and at attention, Jude looking startled and Michael even more so, with a twinge of guilt and suspicion added to his features. Antonia slinked through the door, unruffled and cool. In her arms she carried a round, smooth stone basin and soft white cloths. Her supremely haughty look was not altered from when they saw her last, so Michael's anxiety that his treachery had been overheard melted into unconcern. He eyed the dark woman blandly as she laid the objects upon the table and turned her black eyes to Jude. Beholding her with marked distaste, Antonia was a striking contrast to the girl in front of her. 

She curled her lip in disdain, gleefully watching as Jude bristled with barely contained hatred. "The Dark Lord wishes His emissary to make herself…_presentable_," she said, gesturing to the basin beside her. "If that is at all possible," she added with sarcasm. 

Jude glanced from the sinisterly seductive woman to the clean water and towels next to her. A clean robe lay next to the other objects. Her expression hardened, sharpening her glare into a narrower, more pointed look of hatred and disgust. "I am no emissary of His!" She drew the borrowed cloak of Michael's around her shoulders tighter as if it would protect her from the woman's demonic glare. "I will deliver His message, but," she continued with stony disdain, "as to my _appearance_, why shouldn't His enemies see how He treats His subjects!"

"Because," she spoke in a voice that barely contained her rage, "it is His will, follow it or I shall be forced to see to its completion." Incensed, Antoina took a threatening step forward, prepared to punish the insolent girl for her impudence.

"Come closer, please do," Jude growled, standing her ground. "You'll see that this bitch too can bite!"

In a flash, Antonia raised one hand studded with beautifully laminated, but piercingly sharp nails. She made to strike at the girl's face, to leave her mark—to remind her who was in charge here. 

"Antonia!" Michael called to her harshly, no longer watching with bland amusement. His eyes flashed angrily, but his temper remained serene, betraying nothing to Antonia except a prudent and wise observer. "Do you think that would be wise?" he added in a more subdued tone.

"Wise?" Antonia hissed. "No, but satisfying? Yes. It is a lesson that would do our sharp-tongued little friend a bit of good!" She appeared to be weighing the option in her head. Prudence won, however, and she backed slowly away from her.

"It is keen foresight then, on the Master's side," Michael chuckled, "that He has placed Andrei on her watch tomorrow and not you." Antonia pouted but her frown soon enough turned into a sly grin. "The two of you," Michael continued with good humor, looking pointedly at Antonia and Jude, "would not make it as far as Amsterdam before you have torn each other to ribbons."

"Hardly!" Antonia exclaimed, any traces of a grin vanishing. "That hellcat," Antonia noted Jude with an arrogant raise of her pale chin, "is just a kitten, and although she may hiss like a tiger, she has not claws enough to finish the job!" With a venomous glare, the vampire looked as if she truly would strike her. 

"And you have not prudence enough, dear Antonia, to see the task completed," Michael said in triumph at Antonia's actions which proved him true. He rose to his feet casually and came to stand next to Jude, who watched the two cautiously. A thin, pale finger touched her cold cheek. "It is such a temptation, is it not?" Michael raised an eyebrow, glancing to Antonia for confirmation.

Jude stood still as a statue and did not dare move. She tried to find confidence in the fact that this was all a ruse, but then again the man at her side may just be that good. No, not good, she thought, but the best. This could all be a trick. Yet she did not move.

Antonia shrugged her shoulders with affected carelessness. "I see your point," she said with a sly look. "Besides, Andrei has less forbearance than I." She glared pointedly at Jude. "Any false step and she will pay." 

A smirk overspread her features at a thought. "Or should I say your dear brother will pay." 

Jude flinched, the anger draining from her hard features for the slightest second. Antonia twisted her red lips into a smile, having missed nothing. 

"Pray," she instructed the girl, "make a good show of it tomorrow, darling." She inclined her head in the direction of the hall where her brother remained. "He depends on it." She turned on her black heels and glided swiftly to the door. "The night grows short," she spoke wistfully to her compatriot, "and I am hungry. May I leave it to you?"

Michael nodded his head in acquiescence. "Certainly." And she was gone in a swirl of black satin. He stared after her for what seemed like minutes. His wavering loyalty, he feared, could cause him much unnecessary trouble—indeed, it almost had, had Antonia overheard what had been spoken just minutes before—and all his sense and logic railed against his unwise actions. It seemed like madness to risk everything for conviction, if he even could feel such a thing.

When he turned again, he saw Jude frowning into the basin of clear, warm water, intently studying her worn and pale face, streaked with dirt and blood, and what may have been tears. One hand gripped the clean cloths tightly, but her face showed no rage, no feeling at all and he wondered what she was thinking.

Staring at her reflection, unsure and unsteady in the water, she wondered when she had changed so much. She wondered when she'd begun caring more for others than she did for herself. Not that she ever really cared for herself, but survival had always been her first aim. Preserving some innate sense of pride had been second on the list, but was always negotiable, she supposed. Now there was no space left for her on that list of priorities, and no time for pride…or honor. This was not a hero's choice. 

She picked up the cloth and dropped it into the basin, scattering the reflection of the girl that had no soul left to be wounded. Letting the cloth soak up the warm water, she watched as the warm liquid dissolved away the dried blood on her fingers. The first task of the deceiver is to fool the eye—become what it is they expect to see. A turncoat who would do anything to keep out of harm's way—clean and unscathed.  
                She picked up the cloth, heavy with the weight of water, watching as the clear streams ran from her hand to the basin before she looked up. Feeling eyes intent upon her back, she spoke hollowly without looking back. "Well? Are you going to stand here and watch me? It's not like I can escape or anything."

"Orders," he said quietly, a hint of apology in his voice.

Wearily she rolled her neck from side to side. "You can't even wait outside? Not even if I promise to behave myself?"

Shaking his head, a gesture she did not see, he conceded minimally to her wishes. "I will turn away," he said, the aloof amusement returning, "but that is all I can do."

Glancing over her shoulder with a little difficulty, and not a little pain, she was assured that he was as good as his word. Turning back to the task, she touched the cloth to her face, feeling the warmth, the softness of it. She closed her eyes, realizing just how tired she was. The cloth was no longer white when she finally brought it away from her face, when all of its warmth was gone. Comfort was not lasting in a place like this, and the price of such luxury was steep. 

She turned her attention to both hands, her left one swollen and sore from her fractured wrist. The adamantine band had numbed it sufficiently, but she still felt the pain of a broken bone and the band was the source of her infinite exhaustion. Her arms were scratched and bloodied, but after all the rust colored blood and dirt was sponged away, she saw that only small gashes remained, nothing big. Still worrying was the arrow wound, which had not started bleeding again, but remained open and deeper than she had previously thought it was. 

Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off the borrowed cloak and laid it on the table next to the clean robe. Her shoulders ached with the effort and she shook with the idea of what lay ahead. She released the breath, eyes closed and willing herself silently to be calm, that pain was only in the mind. But as she moved her shoulders, she knew that the red blood from the series of slashes across her back had dried, rust colored into her t-shirt, pasting the cotton in place like a second skin. With her face screwed up, she made a decisive effort to remove it, and that it would only get worse if she left it alone. Still, it was too much for her to overcome the pain silently. A shuddering breath and a whimper of pain caused Michael to turn. 

"Ma amie," he said with concern, "let me help you." He came to stand behind her, his expression a mix of apprehension and grim determination. Reluctantly, she allowed him to take the soaked cloth from her hand. She did not look back, but did not need to see his face to understand the torment. 

As he gently wiped the blood away, she bit her lip and frowned in deep thought. A rude question, though it was, she had to know. Her voice wavered as she silently asked it. "Is it strong?" She paused, feeling foolish and unforgivably prying. "Your desire for blood, is it strong?"

He did not answer but remained focused on his task. If only she could feel what he felt—it was like claws ripping at him from the inside, trying to get free. He answered a simple yes. 

"And," she began again despite the sick feeling it gave her, "what…what happens to them? Your victims?"

A great, wearied sigh escaped him. "Your curious this evening, ma amie," he said with ill humor, a sharp, flinty hardness to his usually placid tones. After a moment's pause, after an awkward moment of silence, he answered her quietly. "Generally they die. But if you cannot kill your prey…then they become one of us."

She turned and looked at him. His expression reminded her so much of her brother. "I know what it's like," she confessed, "to have killed, Michael." Unsure of what to do or how to act when such weighty topics were pressing on her, she shifted from foot to foot, shoving her uninjured hand deep into the pocket of her worn jeans. The crunch and crinkle of a worried and worn piece of paper reminded her that she still carried Rhys' letter. It felt comforting to her fingers, but condemning to her heart. She did understand him, but how he could not know.

"You know nothing of it!" he snapped, backing away from her as if her stare had given him a shock. His eyes glinted angrily, but the anger soon faded as he saw her unafraid, solemn expression soften with something that told him she did understand. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and gave her an even look. "I have not killed these past three years," he unfolded to her. "Not humans, anyway." Gently resting a hand on her shoulder, he convinced her to turn away and let him finish. "Pigs, goats, rabbits, birds…anything. We can live off of practically every living beast. But we lust after our own kind. And nothing can satisfy it." The harshness remained, but anger no longer caused it. Guilt, worn and tired self-restraint, it was something else. "You will not convince me, little one, that you understand that."

She listened without fear. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I do know that if you become one of His, He will make you a murderer anyway, regardless of how you feel about it."

"So either way I am damned," he answered her with defeated amusement. He held the clean robe as she slipped her arms into it, wincing a little at the pain. 

"But it is still your choice." She turned to him, fixing her piercing, steel gaze on him. 

He rubbed his temples with both hands, slumping back against a table. He looked up at her wearily, but resolved. "Tell me about this ring."

"It's gold with a ruby…"

"Magic?" he asked cautiously. 

She shook her head. "No. An ordinary ring. A friend gave it to me. He told me to send it to him if I needed his help. Peter has it now…"

He held her hopeful stare evenly. "You are willing to bring another friend into this?" He stood where he was and seemed to think on this for some time, frowning. "To put another under the sword? I do not understand this, ma petite amie."

"This friend," she clarified with a sly look, "has powerful allies…and a weapon."

Michael held up a pale, thin-fingered hand to silence her. "I think it is wise if you speak no more of this." He gave her a stern look. "You will follow your instructions tomorrow, to the letter. If not, your brother will die."

She despaired at this, fearing that he had rejected her plea and was about to protest, to beg, when he held up his hand again.

"About this ring," he said in his increasingly familiar, wearied stoic's tones, "I will see what I can do." He beckoned her toward him and she came, the black robe she now wore over her jeans and bare feet bellowing behind her. "But do not let hope blind you, little one." He opened the door and led her out into the silence of the bleak corridor.

***

The morning was coming with a cold pale light, no rosy color or comforting warmth to waste on the daybreak. Jude opened her eyes and lifted her cheek from the stone floor with no notion that it was nearly morning. The dark and small and freezing world she knew was underground, in the torch-lit and dim dungeon in a castle-fortress in the bleak middle-of-nowhere. And although she would not see the sun, she could feel that a point of no return was approaching with its light. Soon it would be the hour that would determine how the drama played out. The night had not been spent in sleep. No, her mind was too full of the 'what ifs' and anxieties that accompanied a twist…and a time where it would be impossible to look back.

She crouched in a corner of her little stone and iron cage, as she had for the whole of the night, surrounded by her black robes and black silence. Staring straight ahead, she rarely dared to blink and often began to wonder if she were going mad. But she had heard nothing since she'd first returned. After a few short, angry words with Snape, who now sat as still and quiet in the cell across from hers, she'd ceased to answer his questions or to speak again to him. Remus lay silent in the cell with him and had not woken during the night. 

With little else to do, she sat quietly and waited, watching the door, daring to hope that any second would bring sight of Michael. When the heavy door to the dungeon opened with loud creaking in the old wood and the rusted hinges, she scrambled to her feet. 

At the bars, she pressed her face against the cold metal and tried to look down the long corridors between the cells. This met with some success and she was relieved to see Michael making his way down the passage. Her heart fell, however—Michael wore the grimmest expression she'd ever seen…and he was not alone. At his side strode Andrei, taller than Michael and sleeker. Next to Andrei was Peter. Farther from appearance and manner than Andrei and Michael, Peter could not have been even if he wanted to. He was the south to their north, water to fire. And she was counting on the fact that he was as stupid as Michael was clever. 

A few hushed words were spoken in the cell across from Jude and moments later, Snape was also at the bars, watching the advancing three with a coldly interested stare. Jude's anxious stare never left Michael though his eyes seemed determined not to meet hers. 

"Well, little Râde," Andrei said with a smirk, "Îndoaic-te ca trestia si vântul nu te va rupe." With a loud click, the lock on her door snapped open and Andrei pulled the door ajar. "Better to bend than to break, correct? I expect we will have no problems from you." He let the old cell door groan loudly as it swung its full axis, allowing her room to step through as her warden beckoned her to do. 

Andrei's pointed look into the cell behind him made her shiver. The meaning was understood. Subduing her fears, she gave Michael another tentative glance, desperate but not wanting to draw attention to him. He met her eyes this time and comprehended all that the look was intended to convey. The dull feeling of despair and bitter disappointment felt like a dread weight in her chest, an uneasy sinking feeling that made her ill. He glanced at her with much pity and shook his head slowly. The shock of the profound disappointment made her halt, stopping dead in her tracks just outside of the door. Trying to catch her breath, to think hard of another plan, she felt that thinking on her feet seemed a foreign task, no longer like breathing in and out to her. But she remembered she was good at filching…and if Peter still had the ring…

Peter watched from a safe distance as the prisoner and reluctant servant was escorted from her cell. He blanched as her calculating, shrewd glare was leveled on him, and he was glad and immensely frightened in equal measure. So it was true—she needed the ring for some sort of signal to her comrades. And she thought he still had it. Unconsciously, he took a step backward, glancing to the dark, barred space to her right. 

The movement caught her eye as well.

"Mult zgomot pentru nimic," Andrei spoke impatiently, interrupting her absent, detached moment. "Much ado about nothing, fatâ. Nothing to be afraid of—it is just a message that He wants you to deliver. You will be safe, I assure you. And," he said with lighter humor, "so will they as long as you do not make a false step." He inclined his head, indicating the dark-haired man who'd been gripping the bars with silent anger just below his emotionless expression. Snape never took his eyes from Andrei, not even when every other eye in the room turned toward his companion, who was now on his feet, supporting himself shakily with the bars. 

Jude ignored Andrei and brushed past the tall, dark man impatiently, hurrying to Remus, who gave her a small, reassuring smile for her effort. She was determined to keep her head, but at the sight of him, of what she had done to him, her resolve almost failed. Reaching her hands through the bars to hold his, to convince herself that he was still there, still holding on and waiting for her to save him, she almost did not realize that he had pushed something into her palm while no one else was looking. 

"I heard," he said with effort, "that you needed this." Another wearied smile etched his worn face. 

She took a deep breath and opened her hand. In it was her ring and another object. She wanted to ask how he had gotten it, but as she stared at the other item, the question that she couldn't ask anyway escaped her. "The bracelet you gave me," was what she found she had whispered. 

He nodded, his smile not having yet faded. "You keep losing this," he said with a wry, but pained expression. "If I didn't know better…I'd start to take it personally." 

Jude looked from his face to the two objects, her hope having been restored to her along with them. Closing her fingers around them, she didn't notice Snape's dark, displeased expression as he observed what passed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his long fingers. 

"A cheap trinket," Andrei shrugged as he glanced over her shoulder to make sure all was right. He had not seen Jude palm the ring and place it securely on a finger of her other hand, keeping only the worthless bracelet visible to account for what passed. "Gustul disputâ n-are. There is no accounting for taste, I suppose," he stated blandly as he motioned to the bent, crooked goblin that stood guard at the far end of the dungeon corridor and it pushed the heavy door open as Michael and Peter turned up the passage toward it. "Come," he ordered, waiting for her to obey and precede him up the corridor, "we waste time." 

She grasped her brother's hand one last time before Andrei ushered her away. "It's only a message. I'll be back, I promise."

A cynical, almost maniacal laughter came from within the dark. The professor was shaking his head and glaring at her like a foolish child. "I guess I always gave you more credit than you deserved, Miss Elliot!" Harsh formality. He was displeased with her. Andrei turned his attention to the distraction with amused interest. Jude did not turn to face him. 

"Only a fool or a child tells the truth, you know that," he spat angrily. "They've been lying to you. My bet is that this is more than some message. He's hiding something, something big. And it takes less than a fool to believe in that truth."

She spun on her heels to face him, her cold, hard glare as sharp and strong as Damascus steel. "I have to believe it!" she hissed. "If I don't, he's dead," she raised her chin to Remus, "and so are you! Save your clever lectures, Professor. I don't want to hear them!"

In a flash of black, she'd turned her back to him and was stalking up the corridor to join Peter and Michael, without a parting look at her friend. Andrei raised his pale hands and clapped slowly, amused by the performance. His thin red lips were curved into a smile. "Bravo," he said in a silky voice, gliding past him to follow the others. 

"This is a mistake!" he bellowed after her, but either she could not hear him or she would not. She was gone. 

***

The heavy wooden door closed behind her with an ominous sound. Michael gave a short bow and was gone, Peter following less elegantly the tall man's quick steps. And she was alone. There was no looking back. 

She turned to Andrei, clutching the bracelet in her hand, feeling its reassuring weight. "So," she said without ceremony, "when are you going to give me the message I'm supposed to deliver?"

"In time, little Râde," he said with a hint of a smile, "in time. But we must hurry now before daylight." He walked swiftly, taking each step lightly. She could barely keep up as they climbed from the depths of the castle to the ground level. When they reached the small, hidden door through which she had first entered this place, he held out a hand for her to stop. He looked tentatively outside, more cautious in his actions than she had ever seen this man before. It was still dark, the light of a bright moon glinting off of the pure snow.

As if he could hear her very thoughts, he turned to her with a knowing grin. "Let that thought pass, fatâ. We will be moving fast, and the sun is an hour behind us. London will not see dawn before we have left that isle." 

"I wasn't," she tried feebly to deny the charge.

He looked out over the snow with a serene calm. "You were," he said matter-of-factly. "And I must advise you not to entertain it. Your life is not the only one that depends on your good conduct." He turned to her and seized her left hand. She froze, remembering the ring. Balling her fingers into a fist, she willed herself to calm down. A case of shaky nerves was not enough to blow her only hope on. Holding her hand in his, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small metal key of a curious color. Jude recognized it immediately for adamantine. The milky green metal key was placed into the tiny lock on the bracelet. He removed it quickly, paining her a little, but that was nothing to the relief of being rid of it. The first surge of warmth that she had felt in days returning to her hand made her head swim. Placing the adamantine bond in his pocket, he instructed her further. 

"Because I have removed your restraint, it does not follow that you will be permitted to use magic beyond Apperating."

"Apperating?" she said quizzically. 

"Yes, that is how you will get to your destination," he answered her frankly.

"But you can't Apperate onto Hogwarts grounds," she said smugly. 

With an impatient sigh, he glared at her with growing anger. "You will not be Apperating onto the grounds, but just outside of the gates. You are a friend, as far as they are concerned," he added with a smirk. "You will not have to make a clandestine entry."

With a shrewd look at the girl, he continued. "Do not count on escape. I will be observing you, unseen of course, the entire time. Any suspicious act, any curious turn of phrase that may alert your friends, and I will return word to this castle, where one or both of your friends will be executed." He placed a heavy hand on her sore shoulder. "Be wise, little Râde. It is a simple assignment and not worth the price of getting it wrong." He withdrew his hand in a moment and stepped back. "Go," he commanded, "and do not forget that you are always being watched.

She studied his face for a second before deciding that further words and delay would not be wise. With a pop she was gone.

With a colossal sigh of relief, she glanced around with a small smile. She had no idea that Apperating such a distance was even in her power. It only proved that, despite the adamantine she'd been wearing for the last twenty-four hours, she still had power. Her confidence rose, even though her spirits seemed lower than they had ever been. As she looked around the steep foothills that sprawled just outside of the school grounds, breathed in the good Scottish air, she felt an overwhelming sense of hostility, like she no longer belonged here. The very trees, the grass and the gargoyles that sat upon the stone wall watched her warily. 

Her eyes darted this way and that, wondering if Andrei were nearby, if he could see her at all…or if it was just all a damn good bluff. Her expression turned defiant, but she remembered the stakes. This was not a game. Dutifully, she reached up to the weathered iron and pushed the gate open, making her way with steady and unhurried steps to the castle. 

Before the thick, wooden doors she paused, doubtful that she could pull this off. Reliance on subtle nuance and faith in her friends is all it hinged on and now she wondered if she had put too much confidence in things she could not master, things she could not count on. Standing on the frozen steps before the castle, she shivered. The wind howled at the intruder, but she would not turn away. And all that remained was to take the leap and trust herself if she could trust no one else. She went in.

The Hall was warm with golden light from torches high on the walls, just as she left it. The air felt welcoming within, a sharp contrast with the bitter cold and frosty starlit outdoors. She stopped shivering but she did not relax. The tenseness in her shoulders seemed so permanent and familiar that she didn't think she could ever relax again. But what comfort this place offered, she breathed it in, marveling at the place's quiet charm that seemed to lull her…like warm honey in tea, cozy socks and a cheery fire.

"Excuse me."

Jude jumped at the sound of a small, tinny voice and spun to face a timid little house elf that she did not recognize, snapping back to reality. 

"May I," it asked in a quivering voice, bowing low before her, its floppy ears dangling beside its head nearly touching the ground, "inquire as to you business here, Madam?"

"I wish," she began shakily, but gained confidence quickly, dictating in an authoritarian voice to the small, well-meaning creature, "to speak to the Headmaster. But my _business_ stays with me." Her features were harsh and left absolutely no room for argument. The little creature scampered off as quickly as its spindly legs could carry it. Jude was left in the corridor to pace up and down by herself. The windows were dark and the flames from the torches gave off vibrant yellows that played chase across the window pains. But the darkness remained. Her solemn face turned from the window to the floor in deep thought, watching her bare feet traverse the well-worn marble of the corridor under robes of darkest black when the faint tinkling of conversation pricked her ears. 

A female voice was speaking in a careful manner. Jude knew the speaker instantly. Her feet moved agilely to the first bend in the length of the corridor and found that, as suspected, there came a golden light spilling through the door of the teacher's workroom. The door had been closed only halfway. Resting her hand against the smooth wooden surface, Jude pushed it open fully. With a blank expression, she saw her guess was correct. Indira stood with her arms folded neatly over her chest, resplendent in scarlet robes, silver stars cascading down her front as if spilled on the fabric. Indira raised a perfect, flawless hand to stop her companion's words, shaking her head imperiously, disbelievingly at something said. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and Jude was reminded instantly just how beautiful she was when the woman's dark eyes fixed on her standing silent in the doorway. A smile of the purest joy lit her face, the picture of angelic. 

Jude felt as if her heart would be heard, as if she would be found out. The cold wash of familiar dread replaced any joy or relief on her part to be reunited with her friend. Indira ran to her, mumbling incoherent Arabic, tears adding sparkle to her enchanting eyes. Her fear and panic mounted and she didn't know what to do, what to say, but knew not only her life depended on it. Summoning up her courage to meet her with cold formality, if not hatred, however false and fabricated, she was spared this task by one even more daunting. 

Her arm was seized in a tight grip and she was spun around into a fierce embrace. She remembered this, remembered how he felt, but did not understand such an urgent desperate need to touch or to hold someone, or to be held in such a safe, secure manner. The voice would have clued her in, had not his feel already told her who it was, but she did not hear anything beyond her own cry, felt little more beyond her own pain. 

A sharp intake of breath and the fierce grinding of teeth allowed her to conceal it, but it would have taken much more control than she possessed to pretend that his hands on her battered and bloodied skin did not hurt. Angrily, she shoved him away, daring to glare at him in challenge to test her will again. Bill's clever but good-natured features displayed all the honest confusion he felt as he beheld her, living and breathing, mad enough to spit nails, right before his very eyes. He was supremely baffled.

"Jude," he began warily, "are you all right?" He held out a hand to her. "What happ—"

She backed away, keeping her eyes fixed mistrustfully on him. "I'm fine," she lied with a brittle sharpness.   
                "Okay," Bill said slowly, letting his hand drop to his side dejectedly. "You could tell us how you got here," he opined, looking to Indira for a supportive nod or something of the kind, but she was staring, mouth open, gaping at Jude like a mental patient, utterly stunned. "For starters."

"Apperated," she said icily. 

"And…" he prompted, as if talking to a five-year-old. "How did you escape?"

She made a derisive noise, glaring at him archly. "Who said anything about escape?"

The meaning was taken and she was somehow pleased as she saw Indira take an unsure step away from her, horror-stricken. 

Jude shook her head. "Oh, come off it! You two should have known better than the rest…well, better than any of the other lot left here. Somewhere inside you knew this day would come…"

Bill seemed to be making a supreme effort to keep his head. Indira was speechless. 

"And…what day would that be, Jude?" he asked quietly, disbelievingly. 

"The day I made my choice," she announced with confidence. "Once and for all."

"What has happened to you, darling?" Jude turned to Indira with a cold indifference. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Why do you act so hurtful, so…so cold? We are your friends," she pleaded, still not able to understand, or unwilling to. "We love you."

Jude bristled at this, her expression darkening considerably. "If you ever loved me…that was your mistake." She stared blankly at them. "It was not mine."

Bill walked toward her but she did not move, she only watched him with a detached sort of curiosity. Slowly he reached for her hand, suspecting that she would pull back at any moment. But she allowed him to take her icy hand in his. The feel of his warm fingers over hers was more painful, more searing than any pain she had experienced until now and she fought not to recoil. Through some unknown source of strength she was able to remain calm, determined. 

He searched her eyes for any indication that she was not herself, a curse perhaps or some other alteration that would cause such a turn. He saw only Jude looking back from the very same clear, gray eyes. It was his friend for sure, but she had changed. 

Blandly, she looked down at the warm hands that covered hers. She had to make her move or it would be over and she would lose for certain. Sharply she pulled her hand out of his grip, staring with frigid eyes. "Do not waste your touch on me, Bill," she warned him dispassionately. "I no longer feel." With one smooth movement, she'd taken the gold and ruby ring stolen from the Egyptian tomb, a time that seemed ages apart from this, and pushed it into his hand. "I think you know what this means," she said harshly, her features stony. Had he looked from the ring, to her eyes, he would have seen that she was silently searching him for any sign, any hope that he understood. But he could only stare at the ring as it lay cold and inert in his hand. 

She watched him with the most intent concentration she had ever possessed. But he never looked up, never gave her any sign that he understood. She felt paralyzed and didn't know what to do. The only thing left for her to do, she reasoned, was simply to follow through with the charade. Remus' life depended on that. 

Bill slumped into a chair, eyes still on the ring he had given her months before. Indira was sniffling loudly, staring at Jude and shaking her head. Jude bit back any feelings that threatened to expose her, steeling herself up for the best performance of her life. Dumbledore would be here any moment and she hoped he was an easier dupe than Bill. Her heart could not take much more. 

"You won't be able to find it on any map, but couldn't hurt to try, huh?" said someone entirely new to the scene in a gruff, urgent tone. Jude turned instantly to face the man, utterly surprised, terror mounting beneath her stunned but calm exterior. "Doesn't matter much," Sirius said, striding into the room, his attention consumed by several worn maps, "I'll be able to find it again without even trying." He frowned, looking up to see Bill and Indira staring strangely at a fixed point. Following their gaze, his expression changed rapidly from confusion, to hopeful relief, to suspicion. Jude stood before him like a specter, without a scratch, and what worried him more, completely alone. 

"What…how?" he choked out as he studied her. Dropping the armful of rolled parchments onto the table in front of Bill, still stunned and staring blankly a the ring, he sprang on her like a hound on a fox. "Where is he?" he questioned urgently. 

"Your friend?" she asked with practiced and perfect aloofness. 

"Your brother!" he snapped angrily, bristling at her blasé tone. "What have you done?"

"I," she answered honestly, but frigidly, "have done nothing. You, on the other hand, abandoned him."

"Abandon him?" he spat viciously. "I was chasing Peter!"

"You promised!" she raged, matching his anger. Holding out her hand, palm up, she showed him the little wound made by a knife's point made only a few days earlier, an act that was supposed to bind him to his word. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you try to…" She fell silent, angry with herself that she had allowed him to draw her out. Right hand buried in the pocket of her robes, she clutched the bracelet her brother had given her. It was warm and reassuring. Her façade had begun to crumble. The stony silence may have been an over-compensation, but the sound of the creaky hinges in the door drew all attention away from her. Dumbledore stood in the doorway, his face grim as the grave. 

He moved quietly and deliberately across the room, all eyes following him as he made his way to a cushy chair near Bill. Jude noted that he looked older somehow, weaker, tired, stretched too thin. When he'd settled, he turned his enigmatic blue eyes, curious behind half-moon spectacles, upon her. 

"I understand," he spoke to her, "that you have some important business to discuss, Miss Elliot." 

She nodded minutely, willing herself not to tremble as every eye turned on her. A lump lodged in her throat and she struggled to gain control of her feelings before they compromised her. Still she could not say what she was about to say without feeling that icy, sinking feeling that she'd plunged head-first into a torrent that she would never be able to pull herself out of. This was not new to her, however; she'd done this before.

"I have come bringing a message," she said steadily, without pretension, but without apology, "from my Master, Lord Voldemort."

Several things happened at once. Indira's sobs became an anguished cry, as she backed away in horror; Sirius, eyes wild and murderous made a lunge for her; Bill shot out of his chair, still intent on playing hero; in a flash, Jude raised her hand, the adamantine having only weakened her, and Sirius was thrown off his feet. Bill stopped in his tracks, staring as if he didn't trust a thing he was seeing. She looked at him with anger flashing in her eyes like lightning. "I don't want your hand this time, Bill. I'll save myself, if you don't mind." Immediately she turned to Sirius, who glared at her as he got to his feet again. "Don't be a fool," she spat contemptuously. "If you kill me, you kill Remus." 

"How do we know you haven't killed him already?" he snapped back, turning to Dumbledore as if to a judge.

"You don't," she answered calmly. "But is that a chance you're willing to take?" A sly grin played at her lips and only made him angrier.

"Sirius," Dumbledore spoke with authority, "calm yourself. She shall not be harmed under this roof as long as she extends us the same courtesy."

Jude marveled. It sounded like war talk gibberish. White flags and truces and all that nonsense. "Will you hear my message then, or shall I leave? So far, I have not conducted myself like an enemy…"

"But you have declared yourself to be so," Dumbledore retorted archly.

His words hit her more forcefully than a physical blow. So it is done. She was counted with her enemies, with her friend's enemies. With all that she once hated. She could only nod in assent. 

"Say what you must, then and be gone."

"The Dark Lord," she began officiously as if reciting bits of a school lecture, "wishes to make it known that you cannot match Him. It is foolish to try. The time draws near. Your government that refuses to stand with you will fall. Your allies will abandon you. Castles will fall…and you will be left standing alone." She watched him steadily as he returned the gesture and it seemed to be more than just a war of words. "Wisdom understands the value of wisdom. Do not let yourself be blinded by pretended righteousness, Headmaster. Bend or you will be crushed."

"The wind may howl," Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his piercing blue eyes that belied his age, "but the mountain will never bow to it."

Jude narrowed her eyes. "Even mountains can't last forever." She continued to glare angrily. "So you will remain obstinately behind these walls while war rages outside?"

"My dear," he said with amusement, "I have never hidden myself away behind these walls when there is trouble. And never have I bent to the will of evil. I intend to do neither anytime soon." He raised his white eyebrows archly.

She grew angrier, the insult stinging. "Sometimes it is better to bend than to break." Her already withered soul shriveled and died as she realized this pronouncement was true. She had bent and was now the enemy. As she turned, she blinked away bitter little tears that threatened to spill down her cold, pale cheeks. "Your faith was a cheap trinket, easily given, easily taken back. Well, it is yours now. I wish you better luck with it." She spun on her heels and stalked out of the room, brushing angrily past Sirius, glaring bitterly at Indira. She did not see the Headmaster's curious stare slide from her indignant, tormented expression to Bill, still holding the ring as if it were a relic of a lost love. The old man smiled.

Outside in the frosted air, she could not breath. She rested her hand against the wide stone railing along the steps leading up to the front door, fighting the dizzy confusion in her head. She took her other hand from her pocket. The warm little trinket—cheap but dear to her—winked back in the pale light before dawn's arrival. Closing her fingers around it, she reminded herself why she'd done it. Someone still had faith in her and that had to be enough. Sucking in a deep breath, her chest aching from the bitter cold of it, she left the doorstep behind her for what was likely to be the last time. 

When she'd nearly reached the gate, she heard her name and turned. Standing barefoot in the freezing, deep snow of late December, she shivered. Behind her stood Sirius. 

"What do you want?" she asked ungraciously. 

His shaggy black hair gave him a sinister look that Jude was sure no one else noticed save herself. "It was a mistake to trust you," he said scathingly. "But what I want to know is why?"

"Win-win situation, Black," she said blandly. "This way I stay alive, Remus stays alive…at least for a while. And the Dark Lord gets free messenger service."

Sirius narrowed his eyes with a palpable feeling of hate. "Then you kill him anyway. Remus would rather die than betray his friends like you've done."

A metallic clink pulled her attention from Sirius to the snow-covered ground. A dark, leather bag lay at her feet, a few sickles in front of that, having spilled out onto the snow. They glinted accusingly against the pure white of the frosted ground. 

"Thirty. You can count it if you like," he stated calmly, but the undercurrent of hate was unmistakable. "Judas' price should be good enough for the likes of you."

He turned away from her and was about to trudge back up to the castle, but stopped to hear her last words. 

"Keep it," she told him in a small voice. "You betrayed me first."

She wrenched the gate open and let it slam behind her. When he turned around, she was gone.

Outside of the walls, the frosty air swirling angrily around her, she glanced around the frozen landscape for a sign of him. When she turned to face the way she'd come, he was standing directly in front of her, as if some illusion. She jumped involuntarily, startled. 

"You did well, little Râde," Andrei said, smiling. His black cloak whipped around him in the wind, giving him even more of a sinister, bat-like appearance. 

She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time. "Really," she said, disgruntled, "what was the point of that? All I told him was that Voldemort held all the cards. But Dumbledore won't give in because of words. Not from me…not from any one."

Quickly his hand darted out from under his dark robes, catching her completely by surprise. He grabbed her wrist and held her hand in front of her. The small bracelet was entwined in her fingers. He smiled with smug triumph.   
                "This," he said slowly as he pulled the little trinket from her fingers, "was the point, my dear." Dangling it in front of her face, his smile broadened as her confusion deepened. "The Dark Lord now has in His possession a Portkey, the only one in existence, fixed to this place." He gestured with a sweeping motion to the castle behind her. "The location alone remained unfixed, Hogwarts being so fiercely protected. He will be most pleased with this."

She was paralyzed with terror. Voldemort now possessed a Portkey into the school. Hogwarts could soon be defenseless against the most ruthless murderer she had ever known. And she knew many. 

He had not released her wrist. Turning to the east, he frowned. "Dawn approaches swiftly." He made to leave, but she stood still like an obstinate child. 

With a trembling voice she cried, "You tricked me!"

He grinned wickedly. "Om sfant nu se poate." Viciously, he tugged her forward. "Men are not angels, Râde. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be. Come," he commanded, "we go north."

"North?" she asked, still stunned and sick with guilt and terror. 

"To Azkaban," he informed her unceremoniously. "The Dark Lord awaits us there."

Her blood turned to ice and she could not breathe. She would have fought but she could not move. Fear had swallowed every thought that remained and in the next instant, they had vanished, leaving only footprints in the gathering snow. 

Roll Call!: Hello, my friends! It has been a while, hasn't it? **Emjay(Thanks so much for your last review. I find I had pretty much the same reaction to _Order, but I loved all of the new places she's created for us! Was glad to see that I pegged the start of Snape's career at Hogwarts pretty dead on. Hurrah! But that was about it. _Prisoner_ remains my fave, though), _****Hermionedastar**** (Thanks! Always glad to have a new reviewer! And a fan of AU! I will definitely get around to checking yours—I miss reading fanfic so much it has become a crisis), **Kalor****** (More of the main characters? As you wish, but you can't blame me for what happens next…), **Mags****** (Yay! You're back! Why the change of name…and when are we going to get a new chapter of _A World Unknown?_), ****Minerva of Tortall (Murphy's Law? Yeah, guess I am a little too fond of catastrophe. Things have to go right sometime? Who says? Just kidding, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel…just happens to be a very long tunnel), ****Torifire**** 126 (Thank you so much for your review—my regular readers and reviewers are honestly the fuel that is making me finish this project at the moment…not much else is inspiring me lately). Thank you to everyone who reads this! **


	52. Demons And Demigods

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.

Chapter Fifty-Two: Demons and Demigods

'It's aggravating 

_How you threw me on _

_And you tore me out _

_How your good intentions turned to doubt_

_How you needed time to sort it out_

_I'm not saying_

_There wasn't nothing wrong _

_I just didn't think you'd ever get tired of me_

_I'm not saying_

_We ever had the right to hold on _

_I just didn't want to let it get away from me_

_But if that's how it's going to leave_

_Straight out from underneath_

_Then we'll see who's sorry now_

_If that's how it's going to stand,_

_When you know you've been depending on _

_The one your leaving now…'_

_'Leave', Matchbox Twenty_

                Bill looked from the warmly glowing golden ring in his hand, the one that only moments before had been in hers. As if in a trance, he stared at it for what seemed hours to his hazy mind. The honeyed hue of the gold lulled him and tried to make him forget that there had been no such warmth in her eyes, only the cold, hard glint of steel. She felt no remorse, no pang of guilt whatsoever for what she had done to him, what she had done to all of them. She had cut him with her words, with her actions, and with what she'd left unsaid and left him bleeding as she walked out. The instant she had turned and walked away from him, his sorrow hardened into anger. 

It was some moments later, however, that he felt the hand on his shoulder as he sat staring at the ring and he looked up into the tear-blurred eyes of Indira Sinistra. She removed her hand quickly when she saw his face—his expression was sharp with rage. She tried to console him, to let him know that she believed it was necessity that caused her friend to turn on them. But words had no effect on him. He sprung out of the chair into which he had fallen, stupefied as if from a spell by her cruelty. He flung the ring away from him and made for the door as quickly as he could manage. The tiny tings the ring made as it scuttled into a lonely corner of the room did not reach his ears with their plaintive sounds. Reaching for the doorknob, he gave no thought to anything else but escape. But the door flew open in front of him so quickly that he had no time to spare a second's deliberation on getting out of its way. He scowled as Sirius entered the room, but the dark haired man paid him little attention. Snow still clinging to his black mane, his angry expression was enough to make Bill forget his own rage. 

"I'm going after them," Sirius announced to the room at large. 

"Are you mad?" Indira was the first to speak up, her face still streaked with tears. "You heard what she said, didn't you?" 

Sirius stared at her as if she had insulted him personally. "I will not let this stand. I will not lie down for a traitor! Not when a friend's life depends on it!"

Indira had shrunken back behind the grand, plush chair in which the Headmaster had been sitting silently for quite some time, like an imperious emperor seated before his bickering war council. He watched the scene with an expressionless calm.

"She is no traitor!" Indira hissed vehemently but cautiously. "She is my friend and, if I am not mistaken, she was once your friend too, Mr. Black."

He shook his head slowly. "I wish I could be sure of that."

"And what would you need for assurance, Sirius?" Dumbledore had finally broken his meditative silence. "Is her past behavior, prior to this last interlude, any indication of where her loyalty lies?"

"She works with lies as a mason works with stone, as an artist works with paint, Headmaster. She is a born liar and an inscrutable actor. It would take much more than her word or her behavior to convince me that we are still on the same side. No," he said with flint-hard conviction, "I am inclined to believe what makes sense." He hung his head and watched as his thin fingers curled in on his palm into a fist. "It was only a matter of time."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a judicious nod, "I believed it would come down to a time and a place. Two paths in the woods and all of that—a choice would have to be made. And for some time now, I have been certain of her choice even if she did not know it herself." He paused and removed his glasses from his face, rubbing his weary eyes. "It may have been foolish of me, but for years I have tried to keep her from this very choice."

"I never, in a million years, thought she would have chosen…" Bill said in a small voice, as if to himself, as he stared into nothingness, seeing nothing before him and giving no sign that he remembered he was not alone in that room. But at the Headmaster's voice directed at him, his eyes snapped their focus on him precisely. 

"She has not chosen yet," Dumbledore revealed sagely. "But it is coming to it. And if I am right and she chooses as I believe she will, it will cost her everything."

Bill felt Sirius stiffen beside him, anger and apprehension almost palpable. 

Dumbledore slowly rose from his chair and crossed the room with deliberate steps. He bent low to the ground in one dark corner and picked up a small object from the stone floor. A sage smile, almost secretly, he stared into his hand and studied the item. "Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said as he turned to face Bill, "what exactly was promised when you handed Miss Elliot this ring? Forgive me," he apologized, "my powers of eavesdropping are not what they used to be."

Bill frowned with confusion. "I told her that if she needed me for anything to get that ring to me…any way she could…and I would be there, with the Aten."

The old man was smiling and Bill's frown deepened. 

"You don't think…"

"I do," Dumbledore answered simply. 

"But…she…Damn!" Bill swore fiercely. He grabbed for the map that lay on the table. "How could I have been so stupid? Black, do you think you could find that place again if you had to?" His tone was urgent, desperate.

Sirius did not answer but stared at the others with a sharp glare, his body rigid and his angry expression having not dissipated in the least. "If I had to, yes. I could find it."

***

Sweet summer sunlight filtered through a willow dancing in a soft wind. The downy brown curls on his head bounced as he laughed, that crooked smile that held all the charm of his character, the hallmark of his good looks, was so often directed at her. His hazel eyes looked away for one reluctant moment from her and he called a name, his bright and clear voice resonating in her head. She looked away too.

_A dog bounded over and came to a playful halt at his knees, wrinkling the blanket he sat on and tossing dirt and grass everywhere. He only laughed and somewhere in her mind, she thought she felt herself smile. She should be smiling, the girl who was lucky enough to share such an afternoon with such adoring eyes, such a charming smile focused on her. But the face of this man, this recollection hurt her as deeply as she felt pleasure at seeing him. And like a thin and beautiful silk that was not complete, she knew this was a fragile and glorious dream, destined only to unravel and to leave her cold and alone once more. _

_She tried to hold onto it, tried to focus on his smiling face, tried to feel the affectionate caress of his hand on her cheek, but already she could feel consciousness invading her body, bidding her to wake up and to face reality. This dream was sent only to mock her, and she knew that, but she wanted it the all the same. This face…his face, she had seen it last as it reflected his horror at her revelation. The cold and nauseating, sinking feeling in her stomach reminded her that there was always pain and fear behind every want, every desire. She saw his face again as she had seen it last, as his once-adoring eyes turned to disbelief, even hate._

She struggled now to wake up from the dream-turned-nightmare and she found to her terror that she couldn't. Breathing was impossible. She felt as if she was drowning slowly in an icy sea, sinking below black depths, where no one would hear her scream. 

Suddenly, Jude sat up, straight as a board, gasping. She was shaking and found that she could not make herself stop. Her eyes frantically searched the dark for what she already knew was lurking beyond her ability to see. The night hid its form but not its sound nor its cold, deadly feeling. A dementor was nearby. 

Her hands flew to her face and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms to her temples. She fell back to the hard stone floor, not noticing the crushing pain it inflicted on her shoulder, still throbbing from the goblins' arrow. Physical pain was a mere annoyance compared to the psychological torment, the mental agony of her worst memories. But just at the point that she thought she would break, the hurt and the cold began to slowly subside. The memories were still clear, but the edges had blurred. They were no longer sharp and stabbing reminders of her past cruelty, but dull aches that hammered at the stone foundations of her crumbling spirit. A scream almost escaped her as she felt a warm hand touch her cold and clammy skin, an unexpected and repulsively kind gesture that felt like a physical blow. 

Prying her eyes open slightly, Jude saw a dark figure. She jerked her arm back and scurried away from the being like a frightened and wounded animal. The cold wall at her back reminded her of where she was and that there was no escape for anyone from its confines. She allowed herself to slump back to the unaccommodating floor, resigned to the pain. 

The dark figure spoke, but she did not hear distinct words, just as she could not see a distinct shape through her dry, wearied eyes. It reached for her again and she made a brave but futile attempt to swat at it before her hand fell impotently to the floor. She was so exhausted that she had not realized that the memories had faded once more into the background. 

"Fresh air, I believe, would do you some good, ma amie…non?" the dark figure said as he hauled her to her feet. The next thing she saw was the frigid and clear sky sprinkled by stars. The icy air of the North Sea rushing over stark ocean and this little godforsaken bit of rock stung her face and made her shiver, but she relished the feeling as if it were the golden warmth of a fire. This cold did not compare to the bleak and desperate chill she had endured only moments before. 

"Dementors," she said, her voice coming out only in a hoarse whisper. Another violent chill wracked her thin frame. She turned to face the dark presence beside her, knowing already whom she had to thank for scaring the demon away…at least for a while. 

"Oui," Michael said without feeling as he turned away from the black, raging sea to face her. "It is but another force in His legions."

Jude released another shuddering breath and watched the wind carry the icy white puff into oblivion. "My brother…" she began in a trembling voice. 

Michael's expression, bland at first, now acquired a quizzical, curious look as if he struggled to identify with human emotions, although they could not have entirely been erased from his recollection. It was as if by study, he could obtain the level of concern that paralyzed the young creature next to him. "He is safe," he relayed to her, savoring the small amount of relief in her worried face. He resisted the urge to add "For the time being," knowing that it would have a delicious effect on the human's emotions, but deciding that he would not like to see her distressed further. 

The icy wind whipped thin strands of sandy hair across her face, and she did not intervene. She stared blankly out to sea. "And Professor Snape?" 

"He is safe as well, until Lord Voldemort decides his fate," he answered her truthfully. "And when that is finally decided, even you could not stay His hand." He fixed his cool glare on her, a warning—she knew full well what he wanted of her. 

She shook her head, her jaw tensed from fierce determination and bitter cold. "You're telling me to give up." Her shoulders trembled more violently. Unceremoniously he removed his thick black cloak and wrapped it around her seemingly fragile body. She could have been a coat rack for all of the gratitude she showed at this gesture—she did not pull it closer around her shivering arms, but let it sit on her shoulders where its owner had left it. 

"Well, if the situation was not hopeless before, it seems that way now," he tried to persuade her, the French accent lying thickly on the English words. 

"A rock in the middle of the fucking North Sea!" Jude was shaking her head, her eyes wide and disbelieving. Michael frowned as he watched her. "I have no idea how I'm going to get them out of this mess." She bit her pale lip with grim thought. "But one thing I do know."

It had not passed unnoticed, her seemingly careless substitution of "us" with "them". It was possible that she understood what little chance she had of making it out of this, even if she could manage to save her friends. "And what is that, ma petite amie?" Michael asked, amused but wary.

"I won't give up until I am cold with death." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And even then I'm sure I could think of _something_." 

Her muscles had long ago begun to ache with the cold and the shivering but she ignored this. Still staring at the unforgiving water raging beneath them, she shoved her hands deeply into her pockets. A frown passed across her face, a flittering of surprise and then illumination. Then…nothing. But Michael had seen the small spark of it and he was eager to know what had just passed in his young friend's mysterious mind. 

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe? What is it?" he questioned with a fair amount of apprehension. 

Her glance fell from the bleak horizon to her hand as she pulled it from her pocket. Peeking out of her strong grip was a bit of crumpled paper, but that was all he could see. Michael looked to her face for an explanation, but one was not forthcoming. 

She looked back out over the torrent of seething waves. "They won't know where I am. I doubt they're even looking for me," she admitted to herself, despair edging its way into her voice. She began to tuck the paper back into her pocket when she froze and her calculating glare shot from the icy sky to the forbidding wave-dashed rocks below. "Michael!" she shouted frantically. "How far do you think it is to the coast?"

Instantly he began to shake his head. "You are weak, ma amie, and the coast is too far. You will never make it."

She examined her wrist where the adamantine band had seared an enraged red ring into her pale skin. She hadn't even realized that it was missing. "I could try…" she began hopefully but stopped short of her pronouncement when Michael gripped both of her shoulders and spun her to face him, his eyes fierce and his expression as serious as the grave.

"Even if you do manage it, they will not let you get far," he hissed as he pointed skyward. Jude looked up and she knew that even if she could transform into a raven in her weakened state, the goblin-archers perched atop every sinister and jagged turret would bring her down as sure as their aim was true.

"And," Michael's words cut through her like a sword, "what then of your brother? What do you think will be the price of your escape?"

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall forward, her hope dissipating rapidly. "They think we're in Switzerland. I need them…" She released a wretched sigh. "I can't do this by myself. I am not strong enough to stand up to Him alone." She tightened her grip around the paper in her pocket. Looking over her shoulder, she gave another considering glance at the faraway coast, the vast ocean mocking her with leaping waves and unforgiving torrents. "Maybe…" 

Throwing off Michael's restraining grip, she bounded over to the crumbling wall of the ancient watchtower upon which they stood. Michael caught her elbow, fearing that she had somehow snapped. Instead of throwing herself over the side, however, Jude stopped just before the derelict wall and leaned over it, examining the rocks below. In an instant she stood before him with an insane smile on her wane face. "Birds!" she said, grabbing his hand and hauling him over to the edge. He looked over and saw a small number of ragged sea birds huddled miserably on the rock in a futile attempt at shelter from the wind and spray. "Even in this place! Birds!" Michael did not understand her enthusiasm as the horrid rat-like birds appeared less than appetizing and were too small to fly away upon. 

He understood, however, when she pulled the worn bit of paper from her pocket and carefully smoothing it on the crumbling rock wall. She examined the parchment with a pained expression that dissolved almost at once into a curious determination. He wondered what the strange trinket meant to her but before he could inquire, she was begging him for a pen…anything to write with. He shook his head, informing her that he had none. 

"No quill? No pencil? Nothing on the entire island?" Jude wailed frantically.

"Nothing." 

She bit her lip once more, frowning. She looked from the paper, flapping precariously in the wind, then to her hand, pale and numb with cold. The next instant she was scrabbling at the rocks with both hands, the worn paper held firmly between her teeth. Michael frowned impatiently before reaching out to catch her bruised but not bloodied hands. Her left wrist was a myriad of dull blue bruises from the broken bone just under the surface—he could feel it through the fragile skin—the red of the dozens of small scrapes and the dark rouge of the adamantine burn. He gave her a hard look as he held her hands, indulgent as a father with a tantrum-throwing toddler. 

"Arrêt! You will do yourself an injury!" 

Jude snatched the paper from her mouth with her free hand, giving Michael a strange, mistrusting stare. 

Michael held her hand closer to his face, giving it a hard glare. He felt her back away from him and he knew that she was frightened of him. His eyes rested on her for a minute as she watched him apprehensively. "Calm yourself, ma amie," he said soothingly. "I will not hurt you." He returned his examining stare to her hand. She gasped as his grip tightened. She did not feel anything, just as he'd promised. The warm, thick blood trickled between her fingers and she watched in amazement as a few drops fell to the stone. He released her hand and she studied the skin soaked in the crimson liquid. In astonishment, she watched as he curled his thin fingers into his bloodied palm, his long nails stained red, the instruments with which he inflicted pain on himself. He quickly hid the hand marred by a long, jagged cut in the folds of his dark robe. 

As she continued to stare dumbly at him, he nodded to the paper. "Vite! Quickly…warn your friends. Switzerland could be a trap." He stood wearily to his feet and turned his back on her. 

She obeyed his words and put her bloody fingers to her precious letter. Both sides of the paper were covered with Rhys' handwriting, but she had to use one side—she could not spare both. Shaking her head, trying to dispel such silly thoughts, she began her message, cutting to the chase. A crimson letter 'A' had appeared before her eyes on the parchment before she realized what she was writing. 'Z' followed by a 'K' and then an incoherent blot of blood on the faded letter as she whipped around with surprise, finding herself face to face with Andrei. 

***

He thought Scotland was cold. In Switzerland, cold wasn't just a feeling. It was everything…it pervaded everything. He shivered in his cloak. He was fucking freezing. And miserable to boot. 

"How much farther, Sirius?" Bill asked impatiently. They had been trekking through the bitter cold for what seemed like hours. 

Black answered him only with a moody growl and a sinister frown. 

Bill nestled further into his cloak and bit back the angry sentiment he wished he had the bollocks to unleash on Sirius at the moment. It was a bit trying to play the hero with a belligerent sidekick, but Bill would accept any help he could get if it meant finding her faster. He still kicked himself every time he thought of how easily he believed she'd betrayed him. The only way, he reasoned, to make that up to her was to make sure she didn't pay for it with her life. And he was willing to risk his, Aten or no Aten to protect him from Voldemort's formidable powers. However, now that he thought about it, he was bloody glad to have that little trinket around his neck. He took in a confident but bitterly icy breath and heaved another step forward in the snow. 

Sirius did not answer the little pup at his heels. The young, zealous man bounded along in the snow with tireless enthusiasm for heroics, and at one time Sirius might have found himself caught up in the theatrics of it all. But now he relentlessly soldiered on, spurred constantly by one thought: his friend first, then justice. He allowed the anger to seethe quietly beneath the surface, billowing his rage like a furnace. On the outside he cultivated a tense and concentrating, brooding silence to hide his feelings…and his intentions. Heroics were all a load of shite, and this little nipper was about to be educated. Sirius was on the hunt. 

"We must be getting close," Bill whispered with surprising volume. "Do you hear how quiet the woods have gotten?"

Sirius shot a warning glare over his shoulder and Bill fell silent, heeding the unspoken command without question. Rigidly still in the snow, Sirius watched with keen eyes a spot on the horizon. He seemed to examine it for ages before he filled his comrade in. "This is the place," he said tensely, almost inaudibly. 

Bill merely nodded. "What are we facing?" he asked, his boyish excitement having vanished, replaced by a professional, tactical mind. 

"Wards, of course," Sirius began, "but that's the least of our troubles." He fell silent, brooding. "It's guarded by more than that…but I didn't get close enough last time to find out." 

"Well," Bill began quietly, eyes set on the spot on the horizon, "we won't find out this way." He rose to his feet, about to make for the castle.

"Oi, hold on there, cowboy," Sirius said, annoyed. He placed a restraining hand on Bill's arm. "A man who could've gotten out of almost any scrape I can think of walked in there and didn't walk out. I'd be a more cautious if I were you."

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but a screech from overhead pulled both his and Sirius' attention away from their argument. A dark crow sat in the bare branches that barely covered them from the open sky. It watched them with curious, large yellow eyes. 

"Come on," Sirius beckoned, staring warily at the bird. "We cannot stay here."

The bird screeched again and then dropped from its perch in the dead branches, catching the icy air under its wings. Dancing on the wind, it wheeled high in the air before diving at the two men silhouetted darkly against the snow. It squawked and wheeled again, diving for them a second time. Bill swatted at it with wide motions. Sirius merely ducked and watched the black crow with curiosity. The bird circled out of their reach and came to rest on the crystalline snow. The bulbous, piercing yellow eyes watched the men warily. 

Sirius and Bill returned the cautious sentiment and stared at the strange bird. To their amazement, the bird began to peck mercilessly at a piece of parchment tied to its leg. It pecked in intervals, not content to leave the two men unsupervised. Warily, Sirius tried to approach the bird, but it cawed and jumped back a few feet, flapping its large black wings belligerently. Bill knelt in the snow beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder and resting the other, palm up, in the snow. The bird eyed him sideways, cawed and then began to hop forward. Sirius remained still and watched in amazement as the bird hopped right onto Bill's arm. 

Bill slowly stood to his feet, the large black crow perched on his cloaked arm. Noting Sirius incredulous scowl, Bill shrugged. "No owls in Egypt, really. Have to use other birds, Nile geese mainly. Nasty buggers, though." He swiftly untied the parchment from the bird's leg, the creature giving a last screech before heading skyward. Bill stared at the paper for a second before he dropped it without a sound. He had Apparated before the letter hit the snow. Absolutely dumbfounded, Sirius picked up the paper and began to read.  It was from Dumbledore. It read:  
                

_Do not attempt to breech the castle. V. has captured the fortress of Azkaban. Return at once._

_A.D. _

The note crumpled easily in Sirius' angry fist. Seething with rage, his murderous glare rested on the castle beyond the veil for a moment before the clearing in the woods became silent, vacant. The snow fell unseen to fill their footprints. 

***

"A scoate apã din piatrã." Andrei stood just beyond the light of the stars beneath the dominating shadow of the fortress. "You cannot get blood from a stone. Is that not true my little Râde?" 

Jude spun swiftly around to face the imposing figure and she could not help shaking. His bloodless, pale face seemed to chill her more effectively than the wind off of the North Sea. She clutched the letter in her numb fingers. 

Andrei emerged from the shadow, stepping into the scant starlight, a murderous glint in his cruel eyes. He was focused entirely on the small creature cowering before him, clutching the little bit of paper as if it were a weapon. "But what new treachery have you been devising out here, little one? What is it that you have written in blood?" He stalked toward her as a predator stalks its prey. With a quick motion he grabbed for her hand, but she pushed herself up onto the wall, evading his grasp for the moment. But he easily caught her ankle, toppling her and sending her sprawling flat on the aged stone. Her grasp on the paper had been shaken, though, and she watched as her precious letter floated lazily to the waves below. 

He caught the insolent girl by the collar and snatched her down from the wall, but her eyes remained fixed on the waves. A curious smile spread across her frantic and frightened face as a large, rough-mettle seabird rose from the icy torrent with a bit of white material clasped firmly in its beak. It had caught the letter as it would have caught a leaping fish. On the icy wind it danced high above the waves, her message had found its courier. 

Andrei watched the bird, enraged. He threw Jude to the ground, turning his cunning eyes aloft. "Archers! Send that bird to the waves! Now!" 

A rain of arrows was heard as they whooshed over their heads. Jude clambered to her feet, her eyes never leaving the seabird as it wheeled and dodged the gobblins' unrelenting storm. She watched until the bird had gotten well out of range. Andrei shoved her out of the way immediately and leapt upon the wall as if to jump off into the sea. Just as he was about to transform into his winged form, a swift bat that could surely catch that large bird in such a gale, Michael had caught hold of his ankles and had tossed him easily to the ground. 

Andrei stood slowly, his pale face fixed in rage on his one time comrade, his immaculate appearance not having been ruffled by the fall. He took a menacing step toward Michael, who seemed shorter, less impressive than his adversary, but still formidable. Andrei flashed his fearsome fangs in an open challenge, fire dancing in his eyes. He took one more calculating step forward, then, without warning, reached out and seized Jude by the neck. He pulled her close to him and she struggled, no longer able to feel the stone beneath her feet. A cruel smile spread across Andrei's red lips, his eyes still tauntingly fixed on Michael's. 

"Tell me," Andrei said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, yet loud enough for the other to hear. "What did you write in blood?"

"Nothing," Jude managed to squeak out between pathetic gasps for air. 

"You lie," he said with amusement and he tightened his grip. She sputtered and coughed as he asked the question again.

Michael held up both hands in a placating, defenseless manner. "Andrei, we are not to harm her. It is Lord Voldemort's order."

However soothing Michael's words were meant to be, Andrei became enflamed. "She is a traitor, and so are you!" Andrei shouted, his sharp fangs cruelly exposed. "Humans are intended to bleed for us! WE WILL NEVER BLEED FOR THEM!" His eyes were ablaze as he stared at Michael's open, freely bleeding palm. He tossed Jude aside, forgetting about her for the moment as he advanced on Michael. She coughed and wheezed as she gasped for air, unable to pull herself up and intervene for her friend. 

Andrei had crossed the distance between them in the time it took Michael to take one defensive step backwards. He leapt for the other man, catching him squarely around the middle and bringing them both crashing to the old, damp stone. Jude watched in panic as the two grappled, each exacting a fair number of blows. The damage was only superficial, she knew—every first year Hogwarts student knew that there were only two ways to kill a vampire: sunlight and the proverbial wooden stake. 

Michael had gotten to his feet as had Andrei, but the latter had the former pinned over the side of the fragile wall, the ragged rock below waiting and hoping. Jude did not want to wait and see if what she had learned about vampires in Defense Against the Dark Arts was true or not and as the wall crumbled beneath Michael she realized it was now or never. She pushed herself up on the cold stone and steadied herself, her head swimming from Andrei's attempts to throttle her. Finding her feet, she launched herself at Andrei, catching him around the throat and dragging him off of the other man. He struggled to free himself from Jude's wiry but strong arms. But with one quick shove into the hard rock, she was forced to release her hold as she fought for breath. He dropped her, gasping, against the wall and turned to face her. 

"You are meddlesome, child. I should teach you respect if you were to live longer, but as the case is…I will not waste the trouble." He touched one icy finger to her cheek and traced her jaw until his finger was under her chin. He raised her face to his, white fangs exposed. "Even Lord Voldemort cannot save you now, fatâ." 

Jude squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the pain and the realization of her demise. Funny, she thought as she shivered against the stone, but she hadn't thought it would end like this…

She couldn't be sure of what she heard, but what she felt was distinct: a choking hold on her throat, warm breath at her neck. But then…nothing… She slumped against the wall feeling only the cold air. She allowed herself a peek then opened her eyes wide. Michael was struggling to restrain Andrei. Agile and strong, Andrei had wrestled free and was breathing heavily, staring at Michael with a venomous, measuring glare. 

Michael took the opportunity to attack. "If you harm her, you are just as much a traitor as I am!" His eyes left Andrei for a moment and rested on her. Jude's expression was blank, waiting. 

"Traitor! You are a traitor to your very self, _Michele."_ His lips twisted into a cruel, mocking smile. "You cannot reconcile your nature with what you are!"

Michael's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, he obviously fought to control his rage. But at the last, he could not and he fell on Andrei with all of the anger he had building, years of hatred and self-loathing fueling his murderous nature. The pair crashed to the ground and there was a fury of motion and Jude was not entirely sure at all of what she was witnessing. She did not see what Andrei had produced from the folds of his cloak, but she did hear the sound of the weapon as it ripped flesh and broke bone, finding its mark in Michael's chest. 

Andrei rolled Michael's significant weight off of him and onto the stone. 

"Traitorous bastard!" Andrei spat with vehemence and got to his feet without another glance at the man at his feet.

Wide-eyed, Jude stared, unblinking with shock. Michael coughed weakly, his head lolling to the side, the sizeable hilt of a wooden stake throbbing with the slackening beats of the heart it had pierced. His gray eyes searched for a moment before they found her. He blinked and gasped for air, raising his wounded hand before his waning stare. And in the last moment, a serene smile passed over his pale lips. 

"Ma amie," he said to her as he smiled, "I can _feel_." 

Slowly he allowed his bleeding hand to fall back to the cold stone.

***

"I have no doubt that they are there," Dumbledore pronounced with supreme patience. He produced a worn parchment and placed it on the table, smoothing out the creases before walking away. Bill rushed to the table and snatched up the fragile material in his eager hands. His expression mingled relief with anger and a twinge of jealousy. 

"This is hers, no question…" he said, glancing up at the Headmaster warily. "But is this…blood?"

He nodded. "She began the word 'Azkaban'."

"But is it _her_ blood?" Bill pressed. 

"There is no way to know for sure," Dumbledore said absently, "And no time. This," he gestured at the letter, "arrived only moments before news that Azkaban had fallen to Voldemort's forces."

"Forces?" Sirius growled incredulously.

"Forces, Sirius," Dumbledore assured him. "While the Ministry has been busy denying his existence, Voldemort has called to him a legion…with one purpose: to eliminate those who stand against him."

"Are you sure that the others will be there?" Sirius asked skeptically.

Dumbledore nodded. "While this may or may not be Jude's blood, it was a letter in her possession. And it arrived via a rather battered gull. I believe she is there," Dumbledore concluded sagely.

"And Remus?" Sirius almost did not want to know. 

Dumbledore gave him a searching look. "He is there as well, Sirius," he said blandly as he turned to the dark man sulking by the door, "for that is how I believe he is controlling her."

Sirius gave his former Headmaster a hard stare but remained silent, still holding fiercely to his reservations. 

"The Minister of Magic informed me minutes before that the dementors had revolted. All formerly belonging to Voldemort's ranks were reunited with their master. All others…well, death was a relief for most." Bill hung his head and stared at the floor at such a grim pronouncement. Sirius did not react. 

Bill started toward the door. "What are we waiting for then?"

"Not so fast," Sirius said dully as he put an arm out, blocking the door. "Azkaban is no castle in the Alps. It was built to keep what's in it in, and all else out. You can't just waltz in and save the day, Aten around your neck or no."

The muscles in Bill's jaw tensed for a fleeting moment. "I know the last thing you want is to go back there, Black. But I'll be damned if I let her stay in that place one second longer than she has to."

"Spent twelve years in that place and I turned out fine didn't I?" Sirius crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door, grinning insanely. 

Dumbledore held up a placating hand. "No one is suggesting that we leave anyone in Azkaban. Now is the time, however, to practice caution. I must attempt to determine what was expected of me. Voldemort did not keep this maneuver a secret, and therefore we were intended to react."

"Perhaps he has other targets in mind, Headmaster," Bill suggested.

Dumbledore nodded. "I have had that thought as well. The Minister has obviously reached that conclusion," he said wearily as he glanced at an urgent letter in his hand. "He wishes to see me as soon as possible. As foolish as it seems," Dumbledore said with a smile, "Cornelius still refuses to acknowledge that Voldemort has returned with a vengeance."

"And you will go?" Bill asked.

With a far-off look, Dumbledore considered. "I believe I should. If not to persuade Cornelius, then to garner some much-needed support from a few others." He cast a furtive glance in Sirius' direction. Black nodded.

"The school," Black said after a long pause, "it will be safe with you gone?" It was no mystery where his thoughts were at the moment.

"My students," Dumbledore said with the greatest care and conviction, "are my chief concern, Sirius. However, remain if you are not completely assured. I cannot say that I would not regret the loss of your presence in London, but I will understand if you choose otherwise." He turned to Bill. "Am I assured of Mr. Weasley's company?"

Bill nodded briefly. 

Sirius heaved a reluctant sigh, his eyes heavy with burden. He stared absently out into the corridor for a moment before turning to Dumbledore and adding his assent. "Count me in."

***

She hit the cold ground with incredible force, feeling the stone bite into her cheek. She tried to raise herself off of the floor but the heavy weight of a boot pressing between her shoulders kept her low. She could not see much of the room, but it was bitterly cold and there was little light. 

"He is at the Ministry, My Lord," she heard the distinct voice of Lucius Malfoy pronounce. However, she did not hear a reply. The sound of dozens of cloaked figures rustling past her filled her ears. The hem of a dark robe stopped its progress just in front of her and she watched as its wearer bent low, a masked face appearing before her. It held her stare for a moment before turning to focus on an object in its darkly gloved hand. Her chest constricted painfully as she recognized it. Her bracelet, the one Remus had given her as a child, rested in a Death Eater's hand. Earlier that very morning, she had played the integral part in creating a terrible device out of that very thing. "My Lord thanks you for the precious trinket," said the very same voice. Yet in the time that it took her to growl a rude reply, the bearer of the Portkey was gone. 

Lord Voldemort beckoned Andrei forward into his presence once his fleet of masked thugs had disappeared into the night. Andrei bowed low where he stood before raising his eyes to the being on His terrible throne. Shrouded and cloaked, one spidery, skeletal hand remained to be seen, perched atop the other. He tapped His bony fingers with impatience. 

"Master," Andrei began, a slight tremble in his voice, "I bring before you a pair of traitors."

There was an echoing silence and Jude was aware of the slow breathing that belied many more present than she had previously thought. The boot on her back was removed as she felt fingers grip her hair tightly. Mercilessly her head was yanked up and she fought not to cry out in His presence. She was not about to give Him the pleasure of hearing her scream.

"The little one I spared as you ordered," he said gesturing to Jude. She could feel Voldemort's eyes on her, though she could not see them beneath the dark cloak. 

"The other…" A hiss emanated from the shroud.

Andrei swung his heavy cloak back with a grand gesture to reveal Michael's lifeless body, bloodied at his feet. "I dispatched him."

The shroud nodded. "Very well," it hissed. "And what was the crime against Me that she stands accused of?"

Jude did not mark the words that passed between them. Her attention was fixed upon Michael's ashen face. She could not help but note how much he'd resembled her brother in life. Now, in death, that resemblance seemed unnaturally heightened. His eyes ringed with blue, his cheeks, bloodless and white were perhaps how her brother might look if…

A hot tear trickled down her frigid skin and she felt more stinging the corner of her eye. Tears had never been easy to manage for her, even at the worst of times in her youth, but now she recalled that they had come so often as of late—in rage, in frustration, in bleak sorrow when memories crept into her subconscious and waking dreams. Her first reaction was always to rebel against them, but now she wished for them. She wished for a flood to drown in.

A dark presence ripped her attention from Michael. Andrei stood in front of her, appraising his captive with a thoughtful air. 

"Very well," she heard the creature before her hiss. Voldemort and Andrei had been bargaining while she was lost in her own world and some agreement was about to be reached. She wished desperately that she had paid attention. "She is yours…"

                Coldness filled her veins as she heard the pronouncement. Voldemort obviously noted the terror in His littlest servant's face and He chuckled in a low hissing tone, pleased to see her so consumed with fear. "As soon as she ceases to be of use to Me." His amendment lessened her horror only by a little. "I would not let her go before I saw her anguish as her beloved students curse her and call her traitor when I tell them that it was she who led Me so willingly to them…No," the hiss continued, rising and falling with anticipation, "that I would not miss for anything." The thin, uncloaked finger rose from the thick folds of His robe and slowly pointed, beckoning her to look behind her. The presence restraining her let her go and she reluctantly got to her knees. In the deafening silence, the telltale pop of an Apparation caused her to jump. Hesitatingly she turned and looked in the direction of the sound, knowing and dreading what she would see. 

                In the shadows of the room, she could make out two figures, one tall and shrouded in the cloak and mask of a Death Eater. The other was smaller. It was the figure of a youth, slightly chubby and not very tall. Her gasp was nearly a convulsion when recognition dawned on her and she unknowingly reached out and clutched the robe of her captor for support.

                "Neville," she called out, but her voice was little over a whisper.

                "Wh…what's going on?" he stuttered before another pop replaced his questions.

                Yet another cloaked figure appeared, a struggling silhouette outlined next to it. "Let go!" the figure yelled and the cloaked thug dropped him on the cold hard floor. The small figure continued to struggle, but Jude saw that the boy was bound. Behind her Voldemort stood to His feet. 

                "Harry Potter!" He hissed with what could be described as elation, satisfaction and triumph.

                "Voldemort!" Harry pronounced bitterly, raising his eyes to the skeletal form. Harry continued to survey the room, to calculate his odds when his glance fell on Jude. "Elliot?" he asked with confusion and considerable anger. He had reached his conclusions quickly and she stood condemned.

                "Miss Elliot?" Neville ventured with doubting hopefulness. 

                She could not speak, she could scarcely breathe for that matter. She was waiting, knowing full well what came next, knowing that it would come with the next breath.

                "I trusted you!" Harry's voice echoed in the cavernous space. "We all did, you bloody…lying…traitor!"

                Neville looked from Harry to Jude, his face blank with shock mingled with the beginnings of hate.


	53. Push Comes To Shove

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.

Chapter Fifty-Three: Push Comes To Shove

'I've always kept this push from shoving 

_the__ edge closer now_

_it's__ true enough_

_I have nothing left to say…'_

_'Sustain You', Greenwheel_

                It was quiet.  There was a time that her mind connected silence to safety, order, calm. Now it was just as much a harbinger of danger and disaster as peals of thunder, the howls of destructive wind. Something was no longer _about_ to happen—something _was_ happening beneath the folds of silence. And the sand had trickled through the glass as she tried vainly to stop it. But now she was out of time. 

                A catch in the steady sound of breathing caused her to look away from the point of nothingness she had been fixed on for ages and cast her tired gaze on the man asleep in her arms. After the torments of the children became unbearable, she begged to be taken to her brother and, to her surprise, her wish had been granted her. It felt oddly like a show of kindness to a person condemned. And she was determined not to take this farewell gesture for granted as she pulled Michael's borrowed cloak tighter around her brother. She shifted uneasily as the clotted rents on her back throbbed and her wearied muscles ached in unison. Despite the protest in her limbs, she raised her hand and touched his cheek. It was cold, but she had expected that. She was beyond cold herself and she snuggled in closer, trying her best not to wake him. 

                Allowing her head to fall slightly to the side, ignoring the accompanying pain in her back and under her jaw, she felt the irony: she couldn't claim to know much about the man resting on her knee, even though he was the closest blood relative she had known. The only, in fact. But through circumstance or some phantom bonds of familial duty, she felt tied to him somehow. And the irony in that, she surmised, was that she had never felt a duty to another human before without the accompanying guilt that haunted her. She had an unquestionable duty to Dumbledore, Harry, Rhys…and the list stretched on. Those whom she owed a debt had a claim on her. But Remus had never demanded anything of her. 

                She frowned. This completely puzzled her. Alien thoughts they were to her. Duty and guilt, like rules of protocol allowed her a safe distance. She knew her place, as a servant understands her relation to an employer. And it was not always as bleak as that—there was usually some thankfulness and gratitude in such polarizing relationships. She was thankful for Dumbledore's intercessions when her situation seemed impossible and she was grateful for the bit of paradise Rhys had shown her. However, they inhabited another level altogether, some strata of the unattainable, whether wisdom or joy. And as she watched Remus sleeping fitfully, she felt a terrifying camaraderie, an eerie equality, like soldiers entrenched on the front line on the eve of some battle. She wished she could tell him how much his friendship had meant to her but even that prospect seemed more than paralyzing. It felt too much like a goodbye. 

                There was little more time to meditate on that curiosity, however, as Remus stirred and opened his eyes. Jude forced a smile, and then, like a coward looked away into the blackness. He sat up with difficulty and pressed a hand quickly to his forehead. 

                "How long have I been out?" he asked groggily. 

                She sat up straighter, meaning to stretch but losing the will to move her strained and protesting arms, settling back against the wall. "Hours," she confessed, examining him while trying not to get caught at it. "How do you feel?"

                "I've felt better," he said, managing to sound lighthearted. But if he felt half as bad as he looked, then he had earned Jude's sympathy. He moved carefully to rest against the wall next to her, handing her back the cloak that fell from his shoulders as he sat up. 

                "No," she protested with a twinge of regret, "you keep it." He gave her what was meant to be a stern and reproaching glance, but it fell very short of those feelings. "Come here, then." He wrapped one arm around her and drew her gently closer, careful not to hurt her. They huddled together and shared the borrowed cloak. After a short silence, he began the inevitable exchange. "Tell me what happened."

                Jude let a deep breath escape from her slowly. "I did what I had to," she began blandly, causing a little due alarm in her audience. It sounded like the beginning of a confession. "I betrayed everyone I trust, everyone who'd trusted me, I have possibly lead to the demise of many innocent people…oh, and I am personally responsible for one man's death today."

                Remus just stared at her with puzzlement. "Jude, do be serious."

                "I am," she said roughly. "When I saw…" she tried to speak, but found that her heart was racing and she could not breathe. "I told Him I would do anything He wanted as long as He stopped hurting you." She bit her lip and glanced away guiltily. "He asked me to deliver a message to Dumbledore at the school. I consented to pick a fight for Him. But I had plans of my own. Bill gave me a ring, do you remember?" She continued on, caring none whether or not he remembered. "When he gave that ring to me, he meant for it to be a signal, a message that I needed him. I gave it to him, but I am not sure he is coming."

                "Why not?" Remus asked, wincing and shifting a shoulder against the rough, aged wall of the prison cell. "He's on our side, right?"

                "Yes," she answered simply, "but I don't think he would trust me after what…what I made him believe." She smirked with joyless irony. "What I made them all believe."  
                "Why?" He questioned her but she did not doubt that he already knew why. Still she did not hesitate to answer.

                "Because," she said with a cool diffidence, "if I left them in any doubt of my loyalty to Voldemort, I would not be discussing this with you right now." Her voice became an unsteady whisper. "Some believe that I should have sacrificed everything and refused…but I didn't want to lose you."

                He pulled her closer to him and rested his forehead against hers. "You won't lose me," he gently reassured her. "And as easily as you may have convinced others of your disloyalty, I don't believe Dumbledore would be fooled, not even by your tricks."

                She pulled away and shook her head slowly. "But that's not it. Voldemort never cared about whether or not I appeared loyal. He wanted me to believe I was ruffling some feathers for Him. But that's not what I was sent to do at all." She buried her head in her hands, ignoring the pain in her back. "He was using me to make a portkey."

                "A portkey?" he repeated, astonished. "To…"

                "To the school." 

                "We have to warn them," Remus demanded with as much energy as he possessed and he tried to stand to his feet. With astonishing speed, Jude buried her self-pity and tried to calm him, forcing him not to strain himself and to listen.

                "I already have," Jude explained. "I snuck outside and sent word with one of the seabirds—well," she admitted, "half of a word, anyway. I wrote to Bill that we're now at Azkaban, but that's all I had time for."  
                "That's not good enough," Remus said doubtfully, shaking his head. "Dumbledore needs to know what Voldemort plans to do…"

                "Has already done." Her correction almost went unnoticed. 

                He stared at her blankly. "Already…done…" He repeated the words without feeling or recognition. And she slowly nodded. "And…Harry?" 

                "He's fine," she said to his utter surprise. 

                "Fine? How do you know?"

                "Because," she answered without thinking, "because I just saw him." 

                "He's here?" She answered only with a nod. 

                "Dumbledore?" 

                She shook her head mutely before offering the information he sought after. "He was not among the ones I saw arrive here tonight. Only children."

                "Did they have any word from Sirius when you talked to the Headmaster?" There was a slight tremor in the words and Jude was amazed that he still cared for the friend that had so easily abandoned him. Hearing his name caused the bitter feelings of hatred to return stronger than ever. 

                "He was there," was the only answer she offered. 

                "Then there is hope still."

                She made a disbelieving, mocking sound. "Hope is the only thing that escapes these walls, and she flees fast."

                "Do not say that."

                "Why not?" she hissed. "I have wagered nearly everything I have and I have very nearly lost all. Trust, faith in myself, not to mention that my attempts at righting this huge blunder have cost a good man his life."

                She dared herself to look at him. The question was there, unvoiced, along with the fear that she always felt when she confessed these things. Still she faced that fear head on, figuring that she had nothing left to lose. 

                "Michael," she stated without feeling. 

                "The vampire?"

                "Yes," she dully answered. "He died protecting me from Andrei after he discovered us sending word to Dumbledore. It was Michael who had gotten Bill's ring back for me. I made him believe there was hope and look where that got him."

                No doubt there was some response cued and ready to refute her negativity, but she stopped him before he could make a noise. She held a finger to her lips and strained to hear something that seemed nothing to him. With a curious expression she listened to the silence, listened for the sound again.

                "Shhh. There, did you hear that?" she asked with a crazy look.

                "What?" 

                Jude's eyes darted from one corner of the cell to the other. Then she got to her feet, tossing the cloak aside, and strode over to the door of the small, freezing cell. Decrepit wood with a small window blocked by aged iron bars was all that separated her from the blackness beyond. "Sounds like voices." She put her hands to the bars paying no mind to the pain every movement afforded her although she was always unconsciously careful not to jostle her broken wrist. Trying to peer beyond the dark and find the source of the noise lurking just outside, she leaned against the wooden door and was surprised when it moved under her weight. They were not locked in. 

                She turned swiftly to face her brother, elation and fear showing in equal measure in her face. "It's open!" And just to test her own faith in what she was seeing, she nudged it open farther. "I'm going to have a look," she said almost instantly.

                Remus threw the cloak from him, and braced himself against the wall. "I'm going with you," he protested in response to her belligerent look. 

                "No!" she whispered fiercely. "Let me check it out first." 

                He gave her a scolding frown and with much effort gained his feet, gathering the cloak under one arm, the other hand pressed against the wall for support. "You know I won't let you go alone." She made a cursory effort to protest but the words were stillborn before they reached her lips. She huffed a frosty breath and donned her own frown, but returned to her brother to aid his unsteady progress. She knew she could not hold his weight, but fortunately, he could stand on his own. The curses merely shook to the foundations his sense of balance. Jude was able to negotiate a path for the both of them out of the cell and into the dark with little difficulty and only minor suffering to herself. 

                In the corridor just outside, the darkness enveloped her like a shroud, but it offered absolutely no warmth. Leaving the womb of the cell behind, she felt a stark and frightening abandonment, although she was not alone. Close, terrifying memories of the dementor hung at the forefront of her mind and she kept every sense at the ready, waiting for the tell tale bitter cold of the lurking presence. With every step she expected heraldic cold, however none greeted her. 

                The narrow slit in the masonry every now and then, a miserable attempt at windows in this stone hell, afforded the only light in the yawning blackness. And she heard it again, not too far down the corridor: the sound of hushed argument and, once in a while a helpless whimper made her and her companion freeze in their places, temporarily becoming part of the stonework. Passing beneath the milky light of a crescent moon abbreviated by the tiny window, she held her breath as the owners of those hushed voices came into view. It was as she expected: the barred cell was occupied by various students of every house, mere children marked by the crimson and gold, yellow and black, blue and bronze and green and silver.

                It was the last child that caught her attention most avidly. The keen eyes of Draco Malfoy reflected the scant light like the eyes of a cat as they threw a shrewd glare out of the bars and into the darkness. Confusion, surprise, utter amazement escaped her lips in an embarrassingly audible gasp, so dramatically punctuating a moment of silence that even she froze at the sound as if it had come from some other creature lurking in the thick blackness.

                "Who's there?" Malfoy yelled belligerently into the darkness. "I demand an answer!" He leaned close to the bars holding him in an enclosed square of stone, affording no accustomed comforts and less than desirable company. Indeed, Jude was not surprised to see the familiar features of the next student to peer from the bars in an attempt to see what his rival saw, although he was less demanding of the darkness than his companion. Harry Potter joined Draco at the bars. 

                "Hush," Jude finally breathed. "Do you want to give us away?"

                "Harry!" Remus whispered gravely, relinquishing Jude's feeble support in favor of a closer proximity to the boy. "Are you all right? Were you hurt?" Jude was as relieved as he when the boy shook his head to signify a negative. 

                Remus reached his icy hands through the bars and touched Harry's face. The boy leaned closer to the bars and nearer to the scant light. "Professor Lupin," Harry said in quiet astonishment, "what are you doing here?" Although he directed his question at the man on the other side of the iron bars, his attention was focused wholly on the woman beside the professor. Jude noticed that the kid had a black eye and a bloodied nose. 

                "Obviously, Potter," Draco intoned lazily, "you were the unfortunate recipient of the short end of the stick. Prisoners, are you, Elliot?" Draco queried, directing his attention away from Potter and toward the woman on the outside. Jude only nodded, taking in the slightly ruffled edge to the usually manicured appearance of a boy she had once thought rather prissy. He now seemed to proudly sport his split lip with candor, a trophy no doubt from a scrap with his esteemed cellmate. 

                "You got it," she answered him distractedly, glancing around at the other occupants of the cell, peering with difficulty through the murky night. She spotted Neville without much difficulty as he watched her warily as she spoke with the other boys. Beyond him, she could make out a few of the others, and by the sound of startled breathing and steady sniffling sounds, she guessed that two or three others escaped her eyes. Padma Patil leaned against the wall, huddled on the floor, muttering to herself and barely taking notice of what was going on. Realization dawned that this was the setting of her recent nightmares. It was all coming true.

                "But," Harry began, confusedly, "aren't you…I thought you were on their side…you're a spy!" She snapped herself roughly back to attention.

                "No, Harry," Remus corrected, "she is not a spy."

                "But she has you fooled," Harry attempted, befuddled, hoping to make sense out of insensibility. 

                Jude spoke in low tones, mostly to herself, "I have no one fooled…not anymore."

                "Listen," Draco said, impatiently, breaking the thin strand of her self-absorption, "Have you seen my father?" At this, Harry ceased his short conversation with Remus and cast a biting glare at them, awaiting her answer and Draco's response. She self-consciously answered. 

                "Not recently, no," she muttered to the expectant boy. By now her worries and suspicions were becoming brave enough to make themselves known. "Draco, your father can't be aware that you are here, can he?"

                "Well," he answered in a mocking tone, "I wouldn't be asking after him if I didn't suspect I didn't belong here, would I."

                "None of you belong here," Jude answered defensively, feeling Harry's piercing glare boring into the side of her face. 

                Harry suddenly slammed a hand against the hard iron bars, causing more than one of his companions to start at the sound. "Then why are we here?"

                "You know why you're here, Potter," Draco said quietly, with portent. "But why am I…"

                "I don't know," Jude confessed impotently. "I shall find out, if you wish."

                "That I do," Malfoy spat ungraciously at her, turning away to face the bowels of the cell in which he stood mistakenly prisoner. 

                Jude turned away to face her brother who stood staring silently at her. "I will return," she said acquiescently, ignoring his ill-favored look. "Voldemort has no reason to fear me. I will ask him directly what He intends."

                "It's risky," Remus chided to no effect.

                She responded coolly. "So I hear." Placing a hand on her shoulder, she gave him a significant look, one that warned him to remain there with Harry and not to stop her. She did not look back to be sure if she was obeyed, but trusted implicitly that it was so. She set off in search of the last person she wanted to find. 

***

                "Minister," said a random aide, being swallowed alive by badly tailored robes that proclaimed to be as overworked as he was underpaid and under-appreciated. The bespectacled man entered the well-lit office like a heralding angel nevertheless and commanded both his superior's—the Minister's—attention, and the more hard-won, piercing recognition of the sage and aloof old man, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, a distracted presence whom seemed bent on examining the opening and closing of his aged fist, rather than negotiating an understanding between himself and Minister Fudge. 

                "Yes, Stanley," the Minister acquiesced to his interruption with facile attention. 

                "St…Stanhope," the aide corrected self-consciously, not even intent on making the point heard, for he delivered the line as if out of habit. Indeed he had more important issues to communicate at this moment. "Sorry to interrupt, S…sir, but urgent news has just arrived that I believe will be of the utmost importance to both you and your esteemed guest…"

                "Out with it," the Minister chided Stanhope roughly. 

                "S..sir," the aide, dubbed Stanley by the Minsiter, stuttered, "there has been an attack."

                The Minister leaped from his plush chair in a theatrical motion, and stared, the very definition of the word 'aghast' and choked what was meant to be a commanding and brilliant response to the shock his inferior had just delivered to him. Instead, the Minister's lips opened and closed like those of a netted tuna.

                Instead, the old man rose and calmly asked the necessary question, the only one that screamed to be voiced at the time. Warily, with supreme gravity and measure, the Headmaster asked, "Where?"

                With supreme austerity, the messenger announced, "Hogwarts."

***

                She stood before a sentry, standing guard over a door she wished to enter. Many dark twists and turns had led her there and she was not entirely sure where "there" was, exactly. Planting her feet, she raised her chin and asked what she wished to know, defying the cold, dark eyes to intimidate her. Andrei stared back at Jude in amusement. 

                "Is he in there?" she asked, perfunctorily. "Lucius Malfoy, I need to speak with him."

                "And," Andrei asked in his turn, "is Mr. Malfoy expecting you?"

                "Not exactly," she confessed with the utmost truthfulness, witnessing the uncharitable anger that had characterized him in all of her memories cloud his manner, she amended her response with the declaration of her purpose. "I have news which does concern him, or more accurately, concerns the person closest to him."

                To Jude's supreme astonishment, Andrei did not trouble himself to comprehend her meaning, but simply moved aside and granted her access to the room beyond. He did not, however, spare her his accustomed predatory glare as she passed by him. He turned his back on her as she passed the threshold of the room beyond as if to signify that whatever happened to her from this moment was beyond his control or care. She took her chances and stepped into the presence of the man she believed she loathed beyond any other. 

                Lucius Malfoy looked up as she entered and from his expression, she understood that he held little more warmth for her than she had for him. They despised each other, that was apparent to any witness wholly unconnected with these people under these circumstances. As it happened, however, the one witness was possessed of both the knowledge of the people and the circumstances. Professor Snape watched curiously as Jude entered the torch-lit room amidst the unfriendly shadows. 

                "What do you want?" Malfoy asked soon after he raised his eyes in her direction, a bland demand to know why he'd been interrupted was replaced as soon as his eyes met hers. Instant antagonism was sparked between them.

                "I was hoping you would be able to tell me," she said without hesitation, "why your son shares a cell with Harry Potter."

                "My son is none of your concern," he bit off acidly and turned away. 

                "Is he still _your_ concern?" she returned the sharp parry. "Or have you sold him as well to the highest bidder?" As she suspected, Lucius did not answer immediately and she bristled with hatred. The man was beyond despicable and she felt a sickness merely sharing the same air as he did. 

                "My son's mind has been poisoned by your lot long enough," Lucius raged, his usually pale visage donning a mask of anger for the briefest moment. "It is time that he makes his choice." Jude felt the sharp glare of both Malfoy and Snape as she took a step closer. "The mindless ramblings of good and evil, the ridiculous dogma of a gutter-trash urchin like yourself will hold no son of mine from his destiny."

                Sharp irony clanged against stony resolve and pride, producing only sparks of anger, nothing more. "Destiny," Jude repeated blandly. "Does destiny dictate the direction of a person's life…" she wondered allowed, a bitter smile on her wane face, "or are we simply fooling ourselves, Mr. Malfoy. Destiny as a convenient cover for pride."

                Lucius narrowed his eyes dangerously, warningly. 

                "Is there nothing so vain as a father?" Jude asked the man before her with a deathly gravity. 

                "What is it that you hope to accomplish here, Miss Elliot?" Lucius asked in mock civility. 

                Jude leveled an uncharacteristically foreseeing glance at the man before her. "I was asked to find out why your son was among the hostages taken from the school." Jude clasped her hands defenselessly behind her, offering no threat, merely inquisitiveness. "I now have my answer."

                "May I ask," Lucius interrupted her show of officiousness, "whom it was that sent you to inquire?" 

                Jude smiled. "Why, your own son." The barb had little effect, though Jude did not flinch. "He asked me to find his father, to find out why he was brought here by force and left shivering among the others in this hellhole. What shall I tell him, my lord?" she asked with dripping, disdainful sarcasm. "Father knows best?"

                Lucius' eyes narrowed into dangerously warning slits, his advancing steps telling her that she had overstepped a line. He approached, a hand rising to strike when the door opened suddenly and Andrei entered, a bland look of disinterest on his face at the drama that greeted his eyes. 

                "Lord Voldemort asks to see the prisoner," Andrei announced to Lucius, his motions suspended. Jude did not flinch. 

                Lucius looked from Andrei to Jude and then behind him, where Snape sat silently. With a quick and quiet tension, Lucius hissed under his breath, "Do not breathe a word of this to Draco. I know how to deal with those who try to sway my son."

                "What," Jude laughed audaciously, genuinely enjoying this tête-à-tête, "are you threatening to deal with me like you 'dealt' with your wife?" Jude crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin defiantly. "Does your son even know what happened to his mother?"

                Lucius' jaw tensed perceptively. "Come, Severus! Another interrogation." He snapped his fingers and Jude watched as the professor obediently rose from his seat, hands bound before him, a bored and weary expression on his face. Before he exited, Malfoy turned once more to his short foe. "Adieu," he said with a falsely courteous bow, "I do expect this is the last time we shall meet face to face. We expect your beloved headmaster's arrival at any moment. I would wish you good health, my dear," Lucius said with an oily smile as he turned to Andrei and rested a hand appreciatively on his shoulder, "but I have been informed that your time has nearly run out." Before Malfoy pulled the door closed behind her, she was greeted with one last wide and predatory smile from Andrei that made her tremble twice as fiercely as the chill in the air. 

***

                It seemed an hour at least before that door swung open again. This time it opened to admit a smaller version of the man she had previously sparred with. Draco entered the room, attempting to carry his grand hauteur with him in tact, but faltering ever so slightly. He was frightened although he hid it well. And as his eyes met Jude's, his unsure, bewildered fear clotted and formed the familiar self-assurance that had always clothed her young friend. 

                "Well, I found your father," Jude began, attempting to ease Draco with false assurances. 

                "Save your breath," Draco drawled as he fell into the wooden chair previously occupied by the silent Professor Snape. "I know why I am here. Just like everyone else, I am expected to choose."

                "Choose?" Jude began the song and dance of naivety, but they both knew what choice was about to be demanded of the huddled and frightened prisoners, Draco included in that number, not sheltered in the least by rank or connections. 

                "Don't patronize me, Elliot," Draco scolded moodily, one leg dangling over the chair's creaking, decrepit arm. "Though," he continued, resolved to comfort himself with his own voice, "it does not follow that that choice has to be necessarily painful." 

                "Draco," Jude began, closing the distance between them quickly, "don't even think it."  
                He smiled the oily, politician smile of his father. "Honestly, Elliot. Do you expect me to take the hard road when the alternative is, well, so painless?"

                "Painless?" Jude laughed. "Painless! Listen to me, Draco. You are kidding yourself if you think that choice is as easy as it sounds."

                Draco frowned and held her angry stare easily. "Do you expect me to choose the alternative? You are cracked, Jude."

                Jude turned her palms toward the muddled, blackened ceiling of the small room, thrusting her bluish and swollen wrist under the boy's upturned, aristocratically pointed nose. Appropriately, he grimaced at the sight of the broken bone loosely shrouded by bruised and puffy skin, harshly and undeniably marked by the ugly, decade-and-a-half-old brand, still as black and as clear as the day it was burned into her arm. "Painless."

                Duly, Draco recoiled and shot her a reproachful look. "Well, considering the alternative."

                To his surprise, Jude examined the only other piece of furniture in the room with voracious eyes. It was a spindly wooden chair, the twin of the one upon which Draco lazed, watching her with amusement. He frowned as she lifted it easily above her head and brought it crashing again to the ground. This she did again and again, huffing with the labor, her strength having waned days ago, the barely coagulated stripes on her back opening again to add another layer of crimson to her stained shirt. Finally, she seemed satisfied for some mystical reason with having torn free one of the fragile legs of the chair. This she examined before snapping over her knee with frightening and angry force. She brought a jagged and sharp piece of wood away from the melee and studied it with a look of satisfaction. This result of her fury she quickly pocketed. 

                "What on earth did you do that for?" Draco asked, half amused, half disturbed. 

                "Because," she said blandly having done with winning him over, "I have outlived my usefulness. Everyone who casts their lot with Him does, eventually." She turned away from the boy and made for the door, but before she reached out toward the ancient bronze handle, the door pulled itself away from her and revealed the grim face of one of Andrei's legion. Jude froze, her breath caught in her chest. The sentry/vampire beckoned them to follow, but before she obeyed, she turned quickly to her young companion. 

                He gave her a hard look, half arrogant unconcern tempered with a look that begged her not to say anything else. "Everyone expected this sooner or later, Jude." It was in his way, he assumed, a sort of apology. 

                "Not everyone," she said quietly as she obediently followed her captors. Silently Draco followed her.

***

                Dumbledore did not wait for Cornelius Fudge to regain his senses, pushing his way immediately through the door, ignoring the nervous aide. Beyond the office, he saw Bill leaning against a desk, conversing animatedly with Arthur Weasley and a few others. Kingsley Shacklebolt and four of his colleagues nodded in unison, resembling a tiny regiment receiving orders. Bill glanced up from his compliant allies the offices of the Ministry had grudgingly afforded and smiled, pushing himself off of the desk the instant his eyes met his old Headmaster's—an unconscious action. Bill's smile fleeted quickly when he saw the old man's face.                 

                "Come," Dumbledore commanded his scant troops without a second's hesitation, "there has been an attack." He spoke quickly as he strode past the huddled group and through the exit. They followed instantly. Once they were out of the building and reasonably safe from Fudge's surveillance, he turned swiftly to his trusted friends. "It is as I have feared," he said with the gravest of faces. "There has been an attack on the school."

                Bill and Arthur exchanged hard glances and both visibly tensed but remained silent. 

                Kingsley's deep voice followed. "And the Minister has just been informed as well?"

                Dumbledore nodded, allowing his eyes to droop heavily behind the half-moon spectacles. "I understand if you wish to return to your posts at the Ministry. No doubt Fudge plans some maneuver. At this point, he can no longer pretend not to see." No one returned into the building, however.

                They spoke as they left the Ministry's building to vanish in their wake, shimmering into blissful invisibility between a London bakery and a smoke-dusted, bleakly modern office complex. From a street corner a block ahead of the group, the others were joined by two new arrivals: the shaggy form of Sirius Black and the hunched, wary figure of Mad Eye Moody. The five Aurors comically tensed as Black strode into sight. Dumbledore ignored everything, every gesture. 

                "This is it?" Black scowled, sizing up the tiny force before him. He opened his mouth to add more of his thoughts, but he was silenced by a gesture from his former Headmaster. 

                "We have no time," Dumbledore imparted impatiently to him. "We must return to Hogwarts this instant."

***

                Jude entered what, relatively speaking, could be termed the Great Hall of the hulking, ugly stone fortress perched belligerently in the middle of the raging sea. She squinted and blinked vainly to adjust her eyes to the now-abundant torchlight. Her shoulders burned with the strain of having shivered for days and days, though she could not help tensing at the sight before her. Before her stood Voldemort and his legions, arrayed quite impressively. Seated, of course, the Dark Lord held court over miserable subjects with iron cruelty. His courtiers, arranged precisely according to their worth and estimation in their Master's eyes, spread from Him on either side, His nobly hooded and hidden Death Eaters standing on His right hand, while to His left lurked the vampire hoards, impressive in number and cloaked in an elegant manner of danger and cruelty. Immediately to His left, Andrei watched her with a hawk's predatory stare. 

                The sniffs and barely audible whimpers foretold of the sight behind her. Dozens of students, every age, cowered behind her, tended like frightened sheep by terrifying shepherds. This gathering resembled nothing short of a macabre Sorting Ceremony. And Jude had felt their presence even before she entered the hall. Scores of dementors were scattered throughout the children's numbers. The seeping, sickening cold, however, seemed to have been muted, controlled. She did not doubt the power Voldemort held over the untamable creatures. She forced herself to turn and face them. Harry was there, of course, but he was now joined by numbers of his classmates. Ron was there, she noted with dismay, clutching the hand of a small redheaded girl she recognized as his little sister. The pair stood on the opposite end of the crowd from Harry. In the flickering but bright light, Jude glimpsed other familiar faces scattered between the dank, black robes of the silent dementors. Neville's round face seemed pale and his eyes stared blankly forward, not trusting to rest on anything in particular. Next to him a girl stood about the same height with a similarly round face. She wore the Hufflepuff yellow and black and Jude recognized her as Susan Bones. She stared at the smoke-blackened ceiling, her chin trembling. Draco was led silently to stand at the front of the group. He obeyed, though he remained starkly in contrast to the other children, arrogantly and impatiently crossing his arms over his chest. He stood beside a small, dark-haired girl in the same Slytherin green and silver, though the resemblance ended there. She was visibly frightened, her wide-eyes fixed on the Dark Lord. Further on stood a girl that caught Jude's attention and held it. The dark features marked her as a child of Indian descent and she resembled a very young Indira. Padma held Jude's stare without blinking, silently accusing. Her face was streaked with tears. She was shivering beneath what Jude was startled to realize was Michael's cloak. Through the foggy mist of her recent memory, she thought she had left that very cloak in Remus' possession. Her eyes darted around the room but she could not find him anywhere. 

                Her dread, however, was not allowed to fully take hold of her as in the very next instant she was shoved roughly to the front of the room. Tripping over her feet in an effort to obey the impatient order, she afforded herself one last, hard glare over her shoulder at Draco. He returned her sharp concern with an arched eyebrow and a shrug of one shoulder before fixing his attention elsewhere. Jude stumbled forward, pushed to one side of the room, where she was abandoned by her guard and left under the watch of Andrei. She shivered when a hand gripped her shoulder, but as she turned, she saw the face of a friend, although in his features Jude saw that he still harbored some anger toward her. She had not closely examined the ranks of the vampires and among them she did not notice another prisoner like herself. Professor Snape, hands bound in front of him, stood just behind her. She rested her unbound hands on his, the angle giving her a twinge of sharp pain, but she was determined to ignore it. His presence, although not very comforting, steadied her nerves ever so slightly as she stared into the face composed of undeniably snake-like features. Voldemort returned the stony glare with an unmasked, violent hatred. 

                "You," the demonic voice hissed, "have been warned before that your usefulness has waned." With a slow but effortless motion, the Dark Lord rose from His seat. "Now that it has dwindled and come to an end…I have no need of such a troublesome creature." He turned from her and faced His crowd of captive listeners. "My faithful followers claim the benefit of My protection, without exception." His voice was no longer a hiss, but a commanding sound that echoed off the flaking old stone that surrounded them. "Those who cross Me…traitors…will feel the full force of My wrath." With a flourish and a great sweep of His long cloak, He turned once more to face Jude. "There was a time," He said in a lower tone, "when you were of some considerable value to Me." As He spoke, His hand idly stroked the Ankh that rested among the rich folds of cloth that covered His chest. "What need have I now of such an annoyance? You are worth more to Me dead than alive." He again sat and, as He arranged His robes into the regal tableau, He raised one wrinkled and gnarled reptilian hand, the signal that was intended to herald her end. 

                She froze, unsure of what to do next, whether to flee or fight, knowing that those remained her only options. The ever so slight reassurance of the professor's hand was quickly removed as he was dragged to the back of the swirling crowd by his own captor, the hint of blood giving a crazed quality to the vicious hoard. Jude stumbled away from him a few paces, but Andrei caught her quickly by both arms. Voldemort watched from His vantage point like an emperor presiding over an unfairly matched gladiatorial spar. His courtiers, Death Eaters newly released from their captive state and those who had freely moved among the normal citizenry for years hissed and jeered among them, all ready for a little retribution and she was tops of their hit list, no doubt. Pity, though, that they would not have the honor themselves. 

                Jude struggled in vain as Andrei easily subdued her, wrenching her arm behind her, ruthlessly twisting her fractured and bruised wrist. Her free hand was pressed into his chest as she fought to put distance between herself and certain death, but he was stronger and he easily closed the space between them. Grabbing her by the back of the neck as if she were merely the size of a misbehaving puppy, Andrei lifted her head without effort, baring the pale and dirty skin at her neck. Her muscles tensed with the last attempts at freeing herself, her eyes darting alternately from Andrei's dark and parted lips, his white fangs and black eyes to the hostile crowd around her demanding blood and fast. 

                The hand pressed into Andrei's chest loosened its grip and fell away. Jude relaxed into his grip, giving up. His red lips smiled as he drew her close and whisper comforting words to the condemned. "Do not be afraid, little Râde. Your suffering will soon be at an end."

                Baring his ivory teeth, he gripped her wrist hard and dug his fingers into her neck just below her jaw, ready to taste human blood again for the first time in a month. She felt warm breath on her skin and then the hot trickle of blood. Andrei froze just before he struck, pulling slightly away from his prey, favoring her with an odd look, his brow furrowed over his dark eyes in supreme confusion as he stared from the thick blood running over her white skin into her collar, to her expectant face, anger and fear mixing a volatile concoction just below the surface. There was a collective, enraged gasp from the pressing crowd as the girl wrestled her injured arm free of the man's grip, in turn wrapping her arm around him and pulling the vampire closer to her, watching as his face contorted in pain and confusion as she drove the sharp wooden stake, the gnarled piece of the chair she had destroyed earlier, deeper into his chest. His black eyes narrowed as they fixed her cold gray stare in wonder. The hand he had held her broken wrist in now rested limply on her shoulder, dragging deep crimson trails in the blood, his blood, that had fallen from his lips onto her un-pierced skin. He raised the bloodstained hand before his eyes, next to her face as she held him close, forcing the wooden weapon through to the other side. Glancing in lazy succession from her pale face to his red hand, he slowly smiled and half-chuckled, half-coughed his last words.

                "What would your God say?" he asked, gathering his usual haughty arrogance around him once last time. He rubbed the blood, sticky and clotting, between his fingers and then absently touched her pale cheek.

                "I wouldn't know," she answered him with icy unfeeling tones. "He doesn't talk to me anymore."

                Andrei rested his eyes on hers and seemed to stare through her, at some point beyond. To her surprise, he only smiled. She hugged him roughly one last time and brought her lips to his ear. "That was for Michael." She let him fall limply to her feet, his hand leaving crimson spots on her smudged and dirty face. The crowd had gathered around in a silent circle, watching as their leader fell lifelessly to the ground. Wasting no time, Jude pulled the wooden dagger from the body of the dead man, crouching beside him like a wild cat, stake clenched in her hand, her eyes darting around the crowd, daring the enraged mass to besiege her. 

                Antonia shoved her way to the front of the crowd. Jude was forced to move constantly, leaving her back to no one for too long. The darkly clad woman signaled to those around her impatiently. "What do you wait for? Get her, you idiots!" Antonia bellowed murderously. Several made a step toward Jude but she jabbed the wooden stake at anything that dared move. Every target quickly jumped out of her way, their eyes never once leaving the deadly weapon. 

                "How about you, Antonia," Jude hissed as she strove to leave herself unexposed for even a second. "How badly do you want my blood?"

                The woman bared her teeth and growled a low, animal sound, furious at her own inaction. Boldly, she stepped into the open circle, ready to fight when a bored, slowly rhythmic clapping stopped them both. 

                "While I do admit that you are entertaining," Voldemort hissed with pleasure, "what am I to do with you? I cannot very well leave you alive, and you simply won't die." He gave her a hard glare, making a show of decision. He snapped His fingers and easily disarmed Jude, who uneasily watched the slow circle of vampires creep in toward her, Antonia's voracious expression lighting up with a smile. Jude felt the warmth of them, fought not to shake with pure fear, when the Dark Lord lazily lifted His hand and commanded them silently to halt. One of the angry vampires seized her roughly and the others fell back into a watchful audience. The vampire guard spun her to face her Master as He puzzled over what was next for the amusing but troublesome child of His. A scaly hand stroked an invisible beard and He nodded His shrouded head in mute acquiescence to a vague thought. He beckoned with one finger for a side door to be opened. Jude watched wearily, breathing heavily beneath her restraints. Her breath caught in her chest, however, when Remus appeared at the door, bound at the hands and lead roughly, like a beaten mongrel, by a large, hooded Death Eater. They passed through the door and moved aside as the last person entered the room. Peter Pettigrew followed his childhood friend into his Master's presence and the large door swung closed behind him. The round, bald man wore the same dark robes as the man who roughly handled Remus, but he allowed his head and face to be bared. He turned and made a low, officious bow to the Dark Lord. Voldemort nodded in slight recognition and settled back in His seat. He spoke the command with a lazy and bored tone, crossing His shrouded arms over His cloaked body. 

                "Kill him."

Author's Note: The line "What would your God say?" and the response, "I wouldn't know. He doesn't talk to me anymore," is modified from the film _Dirty Pretty Things._ I am grateful to those of you who wait patiently for my slow-flowing words to appear. This is my respite from real life and you all make it as rewarding as I could possibly ask. Thank you!


	54. Storm At Sea

 SEQ CHAPTER h r 1Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.

Chapter Fifty-Four: Storm At Sea

_'And you can't fight the tears _

_That ain't comin'_

_And the moment of truth in _

_Your lies_

_When everything feels like_

_The movies,_

_Yeah, you bleed just to know_

_You're alive.'_

_'Iris,' The Goo Goo Dolls_

                Albus Dumbledore laid his palm flat against the solid oak of the massive front doors and pushed. A hollow, eerie creak echoed through the abandoned hall beyond. The Headmaster cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, a look that spoke volumes to his companions. There was an electric feeling of anticipation. They all expected the worst and attempted to prepare themselves for it.

                Bill Weasley hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he felt his father's hand on his shoulder as they both watched the old man push open the breeched doors of his old citadel. Arthur felt Bill's tension in his hand as it rested on the young man's shoulder. He was as tightly coiled as a spring.

                Kingsley Shacklebolt shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for action. Beside him, Mad Eye Moody silently ground his teeth together. His magical eye was fixed unblinkingly on the door to the school, his real eye examining the dark figure in front of him–a convict. Despite Dumbledore's assurances, he couldn't take his eye off of the man.

            Sirius Black stared at the door as if in a trance. His chest rose and fell with ragged, anxious breath, his fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his sides.

                Glaring over his semi-circular spectacles the Headmaster riveted his piercing stare on the younger Mr. Weasley. In return, Bill nodded his head once. Dumbledore pulled the door open and Bill stepped through in one rapid motion, followed by the other, more experienced and battle-scarred members of their meager force. Wand pointed ahead of him, his other hand instinctively clutching the medallion that hung from his neck, Bill attempted to peer past the darkness. He felt only the presence of Dumbledore and the others around him.

                "There's no one here, Headmaster," Bill said quietly.

                "So it seems," Dumbledore pondered. He raised one hand slowly and the hall's many candelabras danced with tiny flames. The shadows fled and an empty corridor greeted their eyes. Immediately in front of them, the doors to the Great Hall stood open and darkness filled the void beyond. Dumbledore took a step toward the room but halted instantly and turned. The others had tensed and raised their weapons, every eye fixed in the same direction. A small scuffling noise had drawn their attention to the end of the corridor, heading off to the right of them. The light did not penetrate far enough for them to catch a glimpse of whatever it was.

                Cautiously, the Headmaster moved in the direction of the noise, his eyes narrowed, his movements slow and measured. Quietly, the others followed him closely. Again they heard the soft, scrabbling sound, as if a small animal was hurrying along the stone floor. With mounting trepidation, the group followed the noise, rounding a corner and heading once again into darkness. When they had stepped beyond the edge of the light a shrill voice called out from the darkness, ordering the men to halt.

                "Who is there?" a high, tinny cry sounded from no further than fifteen paces in front of them. "Tell us!" it demanded forcefully, trying its best to sound menacing. "Who comes this way, sneaking through the shadows!"

                Dumbledore relaxed a bit and some of the rigid tension left his shoulders. He recognized the voice.

                "Speak!" cried the voice, rising in squeaking anger and fear. "We will harm you, you be warned!"

                "I do not doubt it," the Headmaster spoke finally. "I would not dare provoke a house elf." His tone was placating, but respectful. "Is that Flick?"

                "Indeed, it is, Sir!" the house elf squeaked excitedly, elated to hear his master's voice. Caution, however, quickly took hold of the tiny creature. "But how are we to know it truly _is_ our master?" he pondered quietly. "We know!" the elf chirped, holding brief counsel with himself. "We will ask him a question only the true master could answer! But…what question?"

                Dumbledore waited patiently in the blackness, sensing his comrades' eagerness to move on. The slap, slap of the creature's feet on the stone floor sounded as it paced the width of the dark corridor, muttering to itself. Slowly, Dumbledore brought the lights to a dim glow, and he saw the small, bluish house elf, Flick, stomping back and forth, smacking his forehead with an open palm. Bill turned a quizzical glance toward Black, who returned it with an impatient scowl. Both, however, remained silent.

                The elf jumped when the light was restored and stared long and hard at the bearded and bespectacled figure before him, surprised by the sudden illumination. "Looks like master, but we must be sure!" he counseled. "Ah!" he shrieked, jumping in the air. "I have it!"

                Dumbledore smiled, waiting for the question, a patient bulkhead holding back the torrent of impatience simmering within his companions.

                Flick eyed the old man skeptically. "What did we humble elves give the master for this Christmas past, eh? Tell us that!"

                The Headmaster's smile broadened. "I could not soon forget. A pair of woolen, Argyle socks…the best present I have received these many years!"

                Flick jumped up and down, clapping his tiny hands together. "We knew it was you!" he squealed in excitement. "Come with us! Come with us!" Flick squeaked impatiently and darted off down the dimly lit corridor. "We have been waiting for master!"

                "Flick," Dumbledore demanded as they hurried to follow the elf, "where is everyone?"

                "That is what we want to show you, master," the elf said without turning around or slowing his pace. "We have gathered everyone we could find. We keeps them safe." He motioned them around another corner.

            Instinctively, Dumbledore knew where they were headed and was not surprised to soon be standing in front of a large still-life painting of a giant bowl of fruit. The short house elf stood before the painting and extended his arm as far as he could reach over his head, standing on his toes. Knowing that he would still be short of the mark, the creature jumped without preamble and tickled the pear above his head. The pear giggled and morphed into a worn bronze doorknob. Jumping once more the elf seized it in his small, bluish hand and turned before jumping back out of the way of the swinging portrait-portal. "This way," the elf commanded as he darted through the door and into the school's kitchens.

                One by one, they stepped through and into the warm, spacious room where a pleasant fire crackled in a grate, the hearth surrounded by several sniffling students. House elves bustled quietly between the few children that were sleeping, tending to any injured and frightened ones that remained awake. Dumbledore scanned the room as he entered. Roughly estimating, he noticed about twenty students were missing. Among the missing, he noted without surprise, was Harry Potter.                                      

            When the door to the kitchen opened, every head in the room turned in its direction. All fear resided, however, when their Headmaster walked in. Minerva McGonagall, who had been seated at a rough table, staring blankly into the cup of tea in her grasp, stood abruptly. The china clattered softly as her hand shook.

                "Albus," she said in a steady voice, locking a solemn glare on the old man, "our worst fears have come to pass."

                Dumbledore strode fully into the room and the quiet chattering of the students died away. Bill, Arthur and Sirius stood just inside the doorway, eagerly scanning the faces for particular, familiar features. Instantly, three redheads jumped to their feet and ran to their father, eager for news. Fred, George and Ron Weasley were all talking simultaneously. Hermione Granger stood just behind them, watching Bill and Arthur's faces, waiting for any clues about Harry.

                Arthur raised his hands to quiet them, noting immediately who was absent. "Where is Ginny?" he asked dubiously.

                "We don't know," Fred answered, staring at his feet.  
                "You don't know?" Bill exploded. "It was late. Wasn't she in the common room with you?"

                Fred looked sideways at George, who gulped and began, "We weren't in the common room. We were, er…"

                "We were trying to break into Flitwick's office," Fred finished.

                "And where were you, Ron? Why weren't you with her?" Bill demanded, not the least bit surprised by Fred and George's confession.

                Ron shrugged his shoulders. "We were in the library," he said, jerking a thumb in Hermione's direction. "With Harry."

                "Harry?" Sirius barked gruffly. "Where is Harry?" he asked anxiously. He grabbed Ron roughly by the shoulders and turned him bodily to face him.

                Shaking his head, Ron answered, "Dunno. He said something about going to see Trelawney."

                "Who?" Sirius asked.

                "The Divination teacher," Ron stated blandly, looking minutely in the dark man's direction. "I asked if he wanted me to go with him, but he didn't."

                "He went alone?" Sirius scolded.

                Ron raised an eyebrow, favoring him with a defensively mocking look. "Yeah, he went alone."

                Sirius let go of him and ran a hand through his dark hair, an agitated gesture. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking to Arthur and Bill. "I'm going to have a look around up there," he announced in a quiet and hollow tone. He stalked out the door. The others watched him go then turned to await orders from Dumbledore.

                "Professors Sprout and Flitwick are searching the school as we speak," McGonagall informed the Headmaster, a hand nervously massaging her throat. "Hagrid is searching the grounds. Madam Pince and Poppy have been helping me tend the children," she said, nodding in their direction in the far corner. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet sat nearby, pretending not to listen as McGonagall continued. "And Vector's useless." She waved her hand toward the great hearth where the woman sat, staring blankly at a hiccupping and snoring house elf.

                "The others?" Dumbledore quietly prodded his Deputy Headmistress.

                Slowly, she shook her head. "I have not seen them, Albus."

                He turned to Arthur and the others, who remained standing by the door. "And the students, Minerva? Do you have a list of who is missing among them?"

                "My Ginny," Arthur said heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. Bill put a hand on his father's shoulder. "And Harry, of course."

                Dumbledore's eyes searched instantly for someone who was no longer there. "Black…where is he?"

                It was Kingsley who answered. "Went looking for the boy."

                "Harry went to see Trelawney…" Hermione filled in, "just before…" She looked from the Headmaster to Professor McGonagall, biting her lip as she fell silent.

                "Mr. Longbottom, Ernie MacMillan, Lavender Brown," Minerva listed with a worried tremor in her voice, "the Patils, Miss Perks…" Her eyes continued to scan the room. After a few short moments she rested her attention on two silent figures seated against a wall, just next to Professor Vector. "Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle," McGonagall asked in a commanding voice, "where is Draco Malfoy?"

                One of the boys shrugged his shoulders while the other shook his head dumbly.

                Minerva turned to Dumbledore. "Albus?"

                Dumbledore turned in the direction of the Aurors. "Kingsley, Moody, would you be so kind as to find Mr. Black?"

                They nodded curtly, turning to leave.

                "We must get to Azkaban as soon as possible."

                Sirius ran all the way to the tight, winding stair that he remembered so well. Divination was the easiest class Hogwarts offered, a class where he and his friends could get away with nearly anything. He couldn't remember having even put one minute's concentrated effort into Professor Evangelia's assignments. She hadn't lasted long in the field of education. He imagined her cooing to tourists behind a silk-laden table, plus twenty-five years, hocking her shoddy talents to suckers on holiday. The heavy smell of incense brought him back to the unbearably warm classroom where the short, toad-like woman waddled between tables surrounded by bored students staring into their own reflections, distorted by the convex surface of the fake crystal balls. He idly wondered if this Trelawney was anything like the laughable woman who'd inadvertently become the butt of so many jokes between him and his mates.

Remus was always asleep behind his book. Sirius remembered the one time he had been caught by the professor. He convinced her he was meditating to un-cloud his inner eye. He'd earned ten house points that day. Sirius began to climb the narrow stone staircase, smelling the dust and the cool, damp-earth smell of the stone masonry, feeling the weight of guilt for having believed Peter, leaving his last surviving loyal friend to whatever fate Voldemort had planned. Scowling at the thought of Peter, he raced up the stairs even faster.

He remembered Peter, sitting across from Remus, and eyeing a redhead over his friend's shoulder with mischievousness. With one deft move, he sent a wad of parchment sailing at her head, hiding behind a copy of _Which Broom?_ even before the missile hit its target. When the girl turned around, glaring at them with a fiery scowl, Peter glanced up, unconcerned and nodded discretely in James' direction. The girl berated the confused boy mercilessly as Peter grinned behind his magazine. Sirius had watched approvingly, had even given Peter a proud thumbs-up when he caught his eye. Peter's grin reached all the way across his chubby face.

Sirius set his jaw in determination as he threw his shoulder against the wooden trapdoor above him. The guilt he felt for the other two was quite possibly equal to the rage he felt for the other. Sirius made a vow that when he saw Peter again, he would…

Sirius frowned in consternation. The door wasn't budging. Not easily, anyway.

He stepped back and ran at the wooden trapdoor, heaving all of his weight against it. With a loud crack and a low thud, he managed to move whatever was blocking the door from swinging upward. He threw the door open the rest of the way and climbed up into the smoky tower room, the setting of all those memories very much the same despite the years. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dark.

"Harry?" he called out, hearing nothing but the creak of his feet on the floor and a faint moan from somewhere in the distance. "Harry!" he called again, "Are you here?" He listened but heard nothing this time. Slowly, the dark forms gained distinction and he could make out a table here and a lamp there. He took a tentative step away from the door and felt something odd brush his foot. Bending down, he retrieved a long, thin piece of wood. _A wand?_

"Lumos," he said doubtfully and was surprised when a small, bluish light was projected at his command. He held the light high and peered around the room. A few steps ahead of him, a woman lay on her back in a heap of gauzy scarves and spangled beads._ It must be Trelawney_. Sirius rushed over to her and knelt close.

"Professor," he said urgently, "can you hear me?"

The woman moaned and rolled her head to the side, her large glasses askew on her ashen face.

"Professor," he said again, putting a finger to her pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief—it was slow, but steady.

"Harry!" Sirius bellowed, the sound of his voice cutting the dusty silence. No reply came back. He spun frantically, casting around for any clue, any sign. He turned back to the trapdoor and saw instantly what had kept it from swinging open easily. A body lay behind it. He must have rolled it off when he finally heaved it open. A crop of dark hair protruded from behind the wooden door, resting against the prone form. Black robes shrouded the rest from sight.

He couldn't breathe. Fearing what he would find, he forced himself to turn the figure over, pulling the body away from the door. He let himself fall to the floor, his knees impacting roughly. Fear like he'd experienced only one other time had paralyzed him. But when he forced himself to look, the face was not what he expected. It was Indira Sinistra's face staring back at him, not Harry's. He sank back on his heels, staring at the face frozen in horror. There was no mistake.

                She was dead and he was grateful for it.

Sirius put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. He only opened his eyes when he heard his name.

"Up here," he said without emotion. Mad Eye Moody's head popped up beneath the floor and his false eye searched the room, rolling to a rest on Black's blank face. Sirius had his elbows on his knees, balancing on his toes. His fingers were laced together and his chin rested on his fists.

"What's the situation, son?" Moody asked in his signature gruff tone.

He jerked a thumb in Trelawney's direction. "She's alive," he said without emotion, "and she's not." His bland stare dropped to the body at his feet. "Harry's nowhere to be found."

"Christ," Moody whispered. "Okay," he said after a moment's pause, "Let's move 'em. Dumbledore wants us to move out."

"Where?" Sirius asked, not looking up from Sinistra's pale, frightened face.

"Azkaban," Moody said as he hefted himself through the trapdoor, his wooden leg giving him a few complaints. He saw the look on the convict's face. He was frightened. Good, Moody thought. He should be.

 "Kingsley," he said without preamble, "help me move the old gal to the kitchen, will you?" His accent was thickly Scottish. Shacklebolt nodded without a word and pointed his wand at the woman on the floor. Sirius didn't move until they were gone.

With the tip of one trembling finger, Sirius moved the dark strands of hair from Indira's face and heaved a sigh. "Told you so," he said as he strained to lift the dead weight in his arms. He didn't like where this night was heading.

            Dumbledore struggled to collect his bearings. Everything seemed off tonight. His grand castle was quiet, all of the occupants huddled together in the kitchens, fearing another attack. Minerva was on edge, Pince and Pomfrey bustled around with dozens of opportunities to stay busy. They all had a nervous taint, masked poorly as calm.

            He was confident, however, that there would be no more interference with his beloved bastion of learning. They had come, after all, for something in particular. And they had succeeded. The next act of this colossal drama would have another setting.

Such a dark, forsaken place. He did not want to imagine dozens of his students, mere children, in a place like that. But he knew his foe. He knew what he was capable of. And therefore, he knew he had to act quickly. None, he hoped had perished yet–no bodies had turned up. He could only guess that everyone who remained unaccounted for was alive and relatively well. But time would not preserve that fact. Time now was counted among his enemies.

Just as his patience for their return was waning, Moody's wizened face appeared in the door. Dumbledore felt a momentary lightening of his mood, the heavy oppression slackening for just a bit. But the brief respite lasted no longer than the blink of an eye.

Dropping his attention from Moody's somber expression, he saw the limp body of Sibyl Trelawney and his wall of calm cracked as a wave of uneasiness broke over him.

"We have bad news, Professor," Moody growled in his low timbre.

Minerva stood abruptly, a hand to her chin. "Is she...?"

Moody shook his head. "Dunna worry yourself, Minerva," he soothed her anxiety gruffly. "Just out cold." He nodded to the nurse across the room and Kingsley silently obeyed, moving the unconscious woman to a resting place where she would receive attention.

"Black?" Dumbledore said in a low voice as Moody lumbered over to him.

Moody shook his head. "He's on his way, Professor." He leaned closer, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for the Headmaster's ears escaping him in a low hiss. "We've got a big problem on our hands, Albus."

But Dumbledore no longer heard him. Alastor turned to look over his shoulder, following the Headmaster's worried glare. Emerging from the portal was Sirius Black. In his arms was the limp form of Indira Sinistra, Professor of Astronomy.

Stunned, the Headmaster glanced from the pallid expression of distant horror on the young woman to the ominous blankness marking the features of her bearer.

Black sensed the question in the old man's face and gave a slow, desultory shake of his head. The first casualty. Sirius _hoped_ that it would be the last. He _knew_ that it would not be.

The Headmaster watched with mounting dread as the body was laid upon the floor. Releasing a wearied sigh as he removed his glassed, the old man pressed his finger and thumb to his eyes. He felt older than usual this night. The feeling was about as comforting as the sight of the dead teacher.

Forcing himself to act, galvanizing his nerves to tackle what must be done, he turned to his Deputy Headmistress. "Minerva," he began his directive, very much like a war general. He was not allowed to finish, however.

"Albus Dumbledore!" The shout came from the portal and echoed through the warm and silent space. "I think you owe me an explanation. You owe all of us an explanation!"

Cornelius Fudge stood in the doorway, bowler hat crammed forcefully down over his head, his scowl as immovable as the pyramids. He wielded his anger like a weapon, self-righteous as if his anger was the wrath of God Himself. 

"What is the meaning of this?" he spluttered, his face accelerating from crimson to purple. He made an expansive gesture to the students huddled together in the bowels of the once invincible castle. "What have you done?"

Dumbledore fixed his unwavering glare on the intruder. "The question," the Headmaster intoned quietly, replacing his spectacles, "Minister, is what have _you_ done?'

Fudge stood, agape, in the doorway, utterly shocked by this pronouncement. "What have _I _done?" He repeated the word with astonishment. "There is no explanation to this travesty, Dumbledore, other than the obvious."

"The obvious," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, looking around at the ordered chaos. A large black dog stood bristling next to him. The Headmaster smiled a quiet little smile. "So now you have come to reason, Fudge? I doubt that by 'obvious' you are finally agreeing that Voldemort has returned to exact revenge?" The question was dubious, supremely disbelieving. Dumbledore was simply drawing him out.

"Hardly," Fudge chuckled with spite.

"Then come to your point, Cornelius," Dumbledore said with thinning patience. "I have little time for wordplay."

"As you wish," Fudge said, removing his awful green hat and fingering it nervously, his scowl having never left his face. "I will not mince words. I will come straight to the point." He shifted from foot to foot, battling to retain a calm veneer. "What I mean....that is, what I intended by..."

McGonagall's stern features showed impatience. "Good God," she quipped with biting sharpness in her tone. "We'll be here all night. Out with it!"

Fudge jumped ever so slightly at her admonishment, but the indignity of being scolded like a child solidified his nerve. Wounded pride emboldened him. He stood straighter and matched the Headmaster's steady stare with coldness.

"What I mean," he said carefully, intending to be taken seriously at all cost, "is that this charade has gone on long enough. And this," he made a sweep of the room with his now controlled gaze, "is taking it very far indeed."

"Charade?" McGonagall said, shaking her head, turning to Dumbledore. "Albus, try as I may, I am not understanding the man one bit." She tutted, measuring him with a critical stare. "Minister," she said slowly and clearly as if talking to a small child, "we do not have time to pratter on like this. Please, make yourself clear or stand aside. We have work to do and if you are not with us, you are certainly against us." She took a commanding step forward, the black dog bristling and growling at her heels.

"It is you, Albus–you, Minerva! You are standing in the Ministry's way!" Fudge retorted angrily.

McGonagall scoffed and was about to begin another round of chiding, but the Minister held up a silencing hand. Minerval looked scandalized.

"Now hear this!" Fudge bellowed. "No one is going anywhere!" He stamped his foot as if to drive the point home that he was immovable on this. "You are all under arrest until a full investigation is completed on what happened in this school tonight!"

"You can't do that!" Minerva baulked.

Fudge shrugged. "Of course I can, Madam."

"Cornelius," Dumbledore said calmly, diplomatically. "Roughly twenty of my students are missing. I would like to find out what happened to them and to get them back at whatever cost. I am asking you to allow me that one concession."

"Absolutely not," Fudge ruled like a tyrant, without any further explanation.

"And so you would leave them to die?" McGonagall could barely contain her anger. Dumbledore put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, silently commanding her withdrawal from the confrontation. She obeyed grudgingly.

"How do you even know they are in danger?" the Minister asked calmly. "From what I have witnessed here, there were no visible signs of a break-in. It is the holiday, so there can't have been that many here in the first place."

"There were about thirty," Dumbledore informed him blandly. "You can see how many remain. There are many ways to get into a place undetected, Minister."

Fudge nodded his acquiescence to that point. "But not here, Headmaster," he corrected. "This place is a fortress."

"_Was_," the Headmaster said wearily.

"But how is that possible?" Fudge demanded. "Unless you staged this yourself." The Minister looked triumphant as McGonagall recoiled, utterly shocked at the suggestion. Dumbledore, however, remained curiously calm. He'd known what Fudge was driving at all along.

"You've been trying to convince us all that You-Know-Who has returned for sometime. And," Fudge continued, talking fast and slick, as was his politician's nature, "you've already proved that you are not above using the innocent to your advantage." He smiled an oily, reptilian smile. "Like you used Potter. The Tri-Wizard Tournament, remember?" He watched the Headmaster for his reaction. "The power you have over weak minds must be great."

"You would know," Moody growled behind Dumbledore. "He had you in his pocket for years, Minister."

Fudge's attention was diverted. Moody and the Minister held each other's glare unblinkingly, the heat of anger palpable between them.

Finally, Fudge glanced back to Dumbledore. "Honestly," Fudge admonished with mock-pity, "the people you ally yourself with. Criminals and madmen."

Dumbeldore sensed Black shift uneasily at his feet. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood silently by, watching the progression of events with an even temperament, his arms crossed protectively across his expansive chest, leaving no doubt whose side he was on. Arthur and Bill watched silently nearby. The Minister seemed to realize that many of his number stood against him at this moment. But he did not flinch.

Realizing he was at an impasse, the Minister changed tacks. "So," he allowed, "if you did not set this up yourself as some elaborate ruse, tell me, Headmaster, how did the forces of evil break through the defenses?"

"A portkey," Dumbledore answered without preamble.

Fudge snorted in disbelief, taken aback by the old man's frankness. "A portkey? And may I ask how You-Know-Who came to possess such a portkey?"

"He made one," came the simplistic answer.

Fudge was becoming impatient. "_How_ did he make one?"

Dumbledore sighed, knowing full well what was to come. "By using an innocent person who had access to this school. It was simple, really."

The Minister felt the anger rising. "An innocent person. You really expect me to believe this?" Fudge shook his head. "Indulge me, Headmaster. Who is the fool we have to thank for one of the biggest security breeches in a decade?"

"Jude Elliot," the Headmaster intoned calmly.

The Minister's face fell instantly. He looked as if he had just been plunged into the depths of icy water. He gathered his composure around him like a great cloak. The edge in his voice was like a razor. "Impossible! My sources informed me that she hasn't been seen in the whole of the United Kingdom in at least a month!"

"It is quite possible," Dumbledore said, unaffected. "She is clever. Too clever for you, Cornelius."

He narrowed his eyes. "If this is true, Dumbledore, then you have found your Dark Lord at long last." He snapped his fingers and a hulking figure of a man appeared behind him in the doorway. He whispered a few short commands and the lackey was gone. "If she is in England, we'll find her. And when we do, it'll be Azkaban for life and longer if I can help it."

"Convenient," Dumbledore said, somewhat amused. "There's one step done for you, Minister."

Fudge cocked his head, striving to follow the Headmaster.

"Miss Elliot is already in Azkaban." His calm did not falter. "Haven't you heard that the prison was overrun by the Dementors–in connection with Voldemort."

"What–not possible," Fudge stammered. "I cannot believe this."

"Believe it, Minister," Dumbledore said with waning patience. "That is where I intend to go just as soon as you will give me leave. Several of my students are there as well as three trusted friends. I will not leave them to save face, for you or for myself, Minister."

"Not possible," he laughed, seeming quite deranged now. "There is a perfectly logical explanation, Headmaster, but Azkaban?" Fudge appeared to be reeling dizzily, as if he would faint. He could not comprehend it. It was madness. A madness cooked up by one senile old man.

"I forbid you to leave this place!" Fudge commanded finally, regaining a modicum of composure.

"And I defy you to stand in my way!" Dumbledore bellowed with awesome force of presence.

"I am the Minister!" Fudge said, stamping his foot again like a spoiled child not getting its way.

"Minister!" Dumbledore raged. He grabbed the struggling Fudge by the arm and pulled him across the room, standing him directly before the body of the dark-haired Astronomy professor. "It is your duty as Minister to save your people! You have already failed her. How many more will you fail?"

Fudge stood, opening and closing his mouth like a giant carp, his eyes transfixed on the terrified face of the dead woman.

"No one!" Fudge shrieked suddenly. "Nobody leaves this room! I forbid..."

The Minister fell silent just moments before he hit the floor. Minerva pocketed her wand discreetly and shrugged innocently as Dumbledore cast her a sidelong glance.

"That was very bad of you, Minerva," Dumbeldore said with the hint of a smile.

"I am an old woman," she said with prim composure and not much concern. "It will be forgiven and forgotten."

Dumbledore nodded before turning to the group at large. "Gentlemen," he addressed his companions. "Our presence is requested at Azkaban. Minerva, you get things in order here."

"Oh, no you don't!" Minerva said firmly. "I will not sit idly by. I am going."

Dumbledore debated whether or not he should challenge her on this point, but it would be a losing battle. He knew this as well as he knew his own name. With a silent nod, the warriors strode out of the castle and to battle. Little did they know what to expect. A tempest raged at sea and they were about to deliberately throw themselves into the torrent head on, a gold medallion and a bare thread of courage as their only weapons.

The sea birds huddled in any nook and crevice they could find in the rock, wet and bedraggled, waiting. The sea raged and foamed around the rock, sending spray high into the air. The mist mixed with the rain in one blinding sheet of water. The gray clouds swirled and churned above, mimicking the waves below. Thunder echoed the crash of the ocean against the foundations of the fortress driven by a mad Russian wind, but it was nothing to the storm that was brewing within.

A great, weathered seagull rustled its soaked feathers and turned its grizzled beak into the gale, preparing to ride out another squall.

Inside there was nowhere to hide. From the high windows in the dim hall, great bluish-white flashes lit up the space, followed by a great bellow of thunder that rattled the old and crumbling walls of the fortress.

The children cowered at the sound, casting frightened glances up at the lofty, slitted windows. Jude did not look away, nor did she flinch at the loud booming noise. She and the rest were safe from the rain and the wind and the lightening. But the fury of nature was pitiful compared to the rage and retribution that would rain down on them from the hand of man. A man who saw himself as God.

"Kill him," Voldemort commanded His docile but deviant servant with the barest hint of something akin to pleasure or satisfaction. It required a soul to feel such things, however.

The servant heeded Him but did not make a show that he heard the order. He simply turned to his task, blankly, methodically.

Jude watched with feline intensity, struggling harder with every passing moment, growing more and more panicked with every step the servant took.

"Peter!" she cried desperately, her tone however still haughty and demanding as ever. "Peter! Don't..."

He didn't even turn when she shouted his name, let alone stop his steady progress. As if seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he stared blankly ahead, his hands limp at his side. Jude calmed herself and assessed the situation. Peter held no weapon in his hands. How could he hope to execute his Master's order? The short, fat man staring comatose out of his pudgy face at the taller, more formidable figure of his one time friend was obviously ill-matched to the task, even if he was not empty handed. Usually, odds would have been highly in Remus' favor, but she knew her brother was as tired and as weak as she was.

Still...it was Peter!

A loud crack of thunder, accompanied by a few frightened and plaintive screams from the children echoed around the expansive stone space. Peter started at this, Jude noted, and for an instant, glanced up at the windows overhead, wearing an expression of acute confusion.

Voldemort's long, spidery fingers gripped the arms of the great stone chair in which He sat, watching the proceedings like a Roman emperor presiding over a blood sport. "Kill him," He reminded Peter patiently, the sound of His voice almost paternal, gently instructing.

Peter nodded, returning his bland stare to his friend.

Jude growled angrily. "Peter, listen to me!"

Voldemort turned His snake's glare impatiently in her direction. Peter quickened his pace slightly and Jude saw her brother's hardened expression flicker with fear. And though the stoical calm returned, the fear never left his flint-grey eyes, which shifted tellingly from the man's round face to his hand, nearly concealed beneath his dark robes.

Jude followed her brother's glare and saw it. The sharp wink of silver in the hands of his friend. Peter was so close now. Remus took a step back but was held in place by a dark hooded figure. Instead of struggling against his captor, Remus fixed Peter with an even glare. He spoke in hushed tones to the short man as he inched closer, the silver blade creeping from beneath the folds of his cloak. As he spoke, Jude could see that he was discreetly working at the ropes that bound his hands behind him. She focused all her attention on him, ceasing to struggle with her own captor so that she could hear.

The rope bit and stung as he pulled at it. Still he forced himself to remain calm and puzzle it out, ignoring the pain. Instead, he focused his attention on Peter. The man seemed in a daze, and Remus could not understand the cold hatred reflected in his eyes. At times he could not fathom how such a friend had turned on them. Had they been so bad? Had the decision been so easy?

"Peter," he said evenly, placating, "why are you doing this?"

He hadn't intended on answering and Peter was surprised to hear his own voice reply. "It is ordered."

"You don't have to listen to him. You know that, don't you?" Thunder boomed outside, swallowing the words.

Peter gripped the blade harder, his pudgy fingers glinting silver around the short handle. "No choice," Peter said without any feeling at all.

"You would kill your own friend?" Remus asked trying to push past the blank, robotic facade, hoping to reach far beyond to the boy he'd known at school. He hadn't thought before that the boy had vanished years ago.                                              

Peter nodded once, his expression bland. "As you would have killed me that night two years ago, in the Shrieking Shack," Peter said simply. He raised his hand, the cold silver of the blade illuminated in one terrifying flash of lightening.

His eyes went wide at the sight of the glinting, malevolent weapon in the hands of a friend. Fiercely, he pulled at the rough ropes, a new urgency in his movements. The rope dropped finally and he swung his hands around to guard himself, immediately, instinctively defensive.

Peter, suddenly in a rage, as if possessed, darted forward as Remus broke free of his bonds and shrugged off the guard. The knife's razor-sharp point was between them as they collided, a hard impact that nearly knocked Remus off his feet.

They were close together and Jude could see nothing. She felt the hot sting of tears in the corners of her eyes, but they seemed to freeze and disappear instantly. Every joint hurt as she struggled mightily against the hands holding her, knees pressed painfully to the hard floor.

There was a swirl of motion, the rustle of action.

"Peter!" Jude shouted once more above the distant, expectant murmurs of Voldemort's minions, the cries of fear from the students. "I will find you! You know I will! There is no limit to how long and how far I will hunt you!"

When he heard her voice, Remus looked across the room, searching for her. He looked as if he'd only just remembered she was there. His face showed fierce determination, a scowl over his storm-colored eyes. He turned his formidable stare back to Peter, frowning even deeper. Perhaps it was anger, perhaps something more.

Peter couldn't have looked more different. His was a look of utter shock, horror even. Jude's angry words died on her lips as she watched, the panicked anticipation choking her. Peter staggered back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes dropping from the stern face of the other man.

Remus looked down, his expression still hard, unmovable. His unblinking glare remained fixed on Peter's familiar face, but it was as if he was looking at a stranger.

Peter backed away a few paces more, muttering to himself insanely. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.

Jude felt the surge of bodies around her as if the vampires at her sides would rush eagerly forward as one, but checked their movements, conscious of Voldemort's presence. Jude knew it meant only one thing: blood had been spilled.                                

The clatter of metal on the floor. Helpless whimpers from Peter. Remus gasped—a raspy, choking sound. Then he fell to the ground.

"No!" Jude felt the raw scratch in her throat, the sound tearing from her like an anguished, primal animal sound. That instant found her captors distracted and she was able to shake them off long enough to gain her feet. But they were quicker. The next instant found her with her face pressed against the cold hard stone floor, the air squeezed from her lungs by a knee in her back. She could no longer see her brother. But she could hear faint shuddering, gasping breaths above her own cries, halfway between sobs and choking coughs. With utter terror, she wondered which was going to be his last.

There was a colossal crash of thunder, nearer-sounding, more immediate. The sound of it startled Jude and she flinched against the knee pressed ruthlessly into her spine, pinning her in place. This crash, however, was followed by shouts and the scuffle of hundreds of feet on the floor around her.

Trying to look around her for any clue as to what was going on was difficult—all she could see was feet rushing by her toward some unseen central point. Trying to move was impossible—although it seemed most everyone else had hastened away, her captor remained, crushing her to the ground.

But then she found that she could breathe again. Gasping harshly, she frowned, lifting her cheek from the hard stone. When she looked up the hall was in utter chaos.

The battered old seabird closed its eyes against the torrent, but opened them wide at the sight of several figures materialize from nowhere. It watched with wary interest as the large creatures chattered back and forth, urgency in their tones.

In another instant they had all clambered up the rock and into the imposing fortress above. Wind and rain again was the only sound. The bird ruffled its feathers and snuggled closer to the hollow in which it hid.

Water dripping from his soaked clothes and his hair was the only sound Bill heard for a moment. Around him, others appeared, wringing their robes. Sirius Black shook out his bedraggled black hair like a dog after a swim. The pitter-patter of the little rivulets dripping from the silent intruders echoed quietly, letting him know he was surrounded by a vast, enclosed space. Indeed, he could feel the ominous black void above him, the weight of the openness pressing down on him oppressively. He felt deeply unsettled—this was not just another cursed tomb, but much more. He felt that something was about to be revealed and it was something that he didn't want to know.

He heard her voice clearly, cutting through the thick spaces and stone between them like an arrow through flesh.

"Jude!"

He couldn't help the sound from escaping him, darting forward instinctively. A steady grip at his elbow stopped him. He glanced from the hand to the face that stared solemnly back at him. Dumbledore was shaking his head.

In a whisper, he cautioned the eager young man wisely. "You cannot help her by charging in there, Mr. Weasley. Your task is to disarm Voldemort…first and foremost."

Bill dropped his gaze to the floor, biting back the arguments.

Dumbledore continued gravely, his voice very quiet now, "No matter what we see in there, no matter the danger. We are none of us safe until his power is destroyed."

Reluctantly Bill nodded.

The slight scuffle of feet pulled their attention in another direction. Arthur and Moody appeared through the gloom. "The corridor seems unguarded. It appears," Moody informed them in his distinct gruff tone, "that he has gathered everyone together in the main hall."

"How many do you suppose?" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt who spoke.

Moody replied, reluctant to give credence to a mere guess. "Twenty or so followers from the outside. Fifteen more from the inside, perhaps less."

"Inside?" McGonagall asked skeptically behind her severe spectacles.

"He released his followers once he overtook the prison," Moody explained with mechanical professionalism, not affected by the numbers or implications they seemed to be facing. "Less if they were no longer useful."

"No longer useful?" McGonagall's hand gripped her neck protectively, waiting for an explanation she knew she would not like.

Moody nodded. "Those who went insane, too crazy to serve him any longer…probably killed them along with the rest of the prisoners."

Minerva swallowed hard, turning a hard look on the Headmaster.

"There are others," Sirius spoke suddenly, the hoarse growl nearly matching Moody.

"Others?" Shaklebolt asked him, trying to get an accurate picture of the force awaiting them further down the corridor.

Sirius nodded once. "In Switzerland, he'd gathered a force."

"A force?" Moody grunted.

Sirius nodded again, staring beyond them at nothing, his mind miles from this place that threatened to hold it prisoner once more. "Vampires, mostly. A few werewolves."

"How many?" Shaklebolt asked.

"A dozen," Sirius said blandly. "Consider your troops outnumbered."

Shaklebolt fixed the insolent man with a shrewd, questioning glare. Instead of rising to the bait, he simply turned to Dumbledore. "What do you suggest?"

Dumbledore let a finger and thumb trace the line of his jaw, following his beard down its length, deep in thought. He frowned and fixed Bill with a curious stare. "Strike the shepherd."

Before they could question his logic, he was silently on his way to the main hall, the sound of people growing louder in the distance. Without preamble, the others followed.

Jude hesitated getting to her feet, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her captor, a large man with squared shoulders and dark features, had sprung forward, forgetting her entirely. Others had followed suit, joining a fray that had seemingly started from nothing. She looked around once more—everyone was distracted. Ignoring the fact that she ached everywhere, she put her feet under her and darted for the opposite side of the hall.

She ruthlessly shoved through a few broad shoulders and still no one seemed to mark her presence. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Remus as he lay on the floor. He wasn't moving. The miraculous way she'd progressed, unnoticed was short lived.

A hand seized her roughly by the collar, choking her as she was pulled backward. She looked over her shoulder, angry at having been deterred from her goal—her brother was no more than twenty good strides in front of her, beyond a swirling mass of human chaos. White fingers were entwined in the fabric of her shirt, now rust colored from the blood that had saturated it, nearly dried by now. She could feel the wounds bleeding anew.

Antonia glared back at her with gleaming triumph, her eyes glinting, crazed with obsession and lust for blood. Her red lips twisted into a cruel smile as the woman, surprisingly strong under her long, graceful physique, spun her so they stood face to face. Jude took a shaky step backward, feeling her bare foot connect with something cold, but the feel was distinct. Flesh always recognizes flesh. She looked away quickly, her glare darting from Antonia to the floor. Andrei stared up at her with a vaguely menacing, but harmless intensity, accusing, but innocuous in death. Her other foot slipped. A pool of thick dark blood had covered the pale stone where she stood, oozing between her toes.

When she looked up again Antonia was laughing cruelly. Jude realized she must have looked truly horrified, wiping the expression from her face immediately, replacing it with rigid determination. She didn't have time for this. Not now.

But it was true that she was trapped. There was no one to help her now—everyone seemed to be locked in there own battles. She slipped again as Antonia advanced slowly, her sharp white fangs glinting in the luminous glow of the intermittent lightning.

"You are brave," Antonia hissed. "And foolish," she added with relish. "If you had only left it alone, little one. But no—you had to stand up to him. You killed our leader…now, a new leader must rise."

Jude smirked, valiantly attempting to swallow her fear. "Who? You?" she said, pouring on the skepticism.

"Whoever avenges his death," Antonia said matter-of-factly, surprised that it was not painfully obvious. "Do you wish that you had not been so rash now? Several of us want it…very much. You," she informed her with mock pity, "I am afraid, have placed yourself in an awkward position."

She sprang quickly. Jude hardly saw the motion. A blinding flash, a bright white wall of light had erupted off to her right. Antonia, thankfully, had been distracted as well and her charge was halted abruptly. Jude wrenched her mind away from the action around her, knowing that if she did not act first, she was as good as dead. Groping around her, she realized that the odds were stacked fatally against her. She had no weapon. Antonia's eyes returned to her with a devouring rage.

Her breath came in heavy gasps. She took another step backward and tumbled into a heap on top of Andrei's lifeless body. The floor was slicked with fresh blood and although she scrambled fiercely to push herself up, she slipped and slid, never able to gain traction quickly enough. Antonia's spidery white fingers reached out toward her, grabbing a fistful of Jude's closely cropped sandy hair, just below the base of her skull, forcing her chin up. Antonia looked disgusted, annoyed at how easy it was. That was when Jude's fingers finally felt what they had been searching for.

The look of shocked terror and disbelief that swiftly replaced the smugly perturbed expression on Antonia's once elegant features was grimly satisfying to Jude. A small trickle of reddish-black liquid ran like a tiny river down Antonia's pale chin from her lips, the deep crimson matching in color. Antonia's glittering black stare fell to her side where Jude's hand gripped the jagged piece of wood that she'd used to kill Andrei in a white-knuckled grasp. The wood was buried in her own flesh just under her arm. She blinked only once before pitching forward onto Jude, pinning her against the dead body.

"Save your ambition for the next life," Jude whispered close to Antonia's ear. Grunting under the extra weight, Jude put the heel of her palms against Antonia's lifeless body, pushing against the dead woman's shoulders. She managed to roll the body away and stand shakily to her feet. Covered in blood, she studied the spike in her hand, slick and wet, no longer resembling wood at all. She let it fall.

Reluctantly, she looked over her shoulder. The tempest within the hall seemed to be fading, although she could not tell who had won. Her eyes were locked with His. He regarded her for the briefest of moments, time obviously not on His side. His reptilian face showed nothing but the purest hate. If He could have killed her with sheer will, she would simply have been no more. But for some curious reason, He did no more than glare with rage burning in the dark voids of His eyes.

"I will dance on your ashes!" He hissed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke and a flash of light.

She stood dumbstruck. The hall seemed silent and the world froze around her. Yet all around snatches of movement tugged at her attention, instincts begging her to snap out of it. With a conscious effort she drug her feet across the floor, completing the path that she had been so fixed on before. She was very close to him now, but it seemed forever until she was by his side.

They burst through the door on the Headmaster's signal, sending several blazing white patronus figures before them. Quickly the dementors had fled to the deepest shadows of the fortress, fleeing into the darkness. The children's faces registered surprised terror then unexpected relief in unison at the sight of their Professor Dumbledore.

The scant attacking force, few in number but experienced nonetheless, split immediately, peeling off into the growing turbulence of the fray, taking on as many Death Eaters as they dared. Dumbledodre stuck close by Bill, clearing a straight shot to the heart of the beast.

Voldemort leapt to his feet, an eager smile spreading across his thin, pale face. This was what he had been waiting for. The arrogant Professor Dumbledore strode right through parting crowd, a defiant little mouse marching straight into the open paw of a lion. His grin spread wider. Perfect.

His minions scrambled for glory or escape, though he cared little of that. Do as they please, he had his gold. Anxiously Voldemort fingered the glimmering Ankh, gleefully deciding on the best way to kill his most hated foe. The young and eager pup at the Headmaster's side first, perhaps…

Voldemort watched every movement they made, puzzling slightly as the young man reached for some small trinket at his neck. The wink of gold was unmistakable. And then there were words—the kid was saying something. Bemusedly, Voldemort listened carefully to the commands, the words unfamiliar, yet he knew them as if he knew his own name. A sense of connection drew him closer, curiosity overcoming caution (a most unnecessary virtue for the all-powerful).

And then it happened. Like the snapping of a cable under an enormous burden, that connection broke, the ends recoiling like a whip's lash. Voldemort felt the backlash as if it had been a physical blow and for a moment he was stunned. Dumbledore and the kid stood before him, wands at the ready and he knew it was over.

For now, at least.

Still, the rage was intoxicating, dizzying. It seemed the space of forever that he stood, motionless and vulnerable. And then an opportunity, a hesitation—the young man had glanced away from him, his prey. He followed the man's imprudent stare. Voldemort felt the heat of betrayal and anger rise beneath his cold, inhuman shell. Jude's icy gray stare fixed his for the briefest of moments.

Harsh and hurried words from Dumbledore snapped Bill into such quick alertness that he quickly fired off a curse in Voldemort's direction, knowing that it would never hit its mark. Dumbledore tried to recover the situation, but even his expert aim and speed could not compensate. With a low hiss, the Dark Lord disappeared amid a cheap magician's trick, a mask of smoke and light.

And Voldemort was gone.

Bill watched eagerly as Jude shook herself from her daze. He felt a tightening in his stomach at the sight of her, a familiar pain. She was covered in blood and stared blankly ahead, as confused as a lost child.

With an eerie, unsettling calm, she walked away from the bodies drenched in blood behind her, ignoring the hungry, clawing presence of the vampire mob behind her. In their midst, two or three men were getting the upper hand and the immortals had begun to flee now that their leader was dead and their Master had run.

Bill watched as she walked by him, like a ghost. He watched her as she knelt down in the middle of the battle, untouched and unmoved by the violence that swirled around her like storm clouds.

Soon the wind had shifted. Those who could flee fled. Not many remained after Voldemort's flight to stand their ground.

His hand was already cold when she picked it up, but his smile was still the same. Remus looked on her as he always had, with a faith that would never be shaken. He looked on her with sadness, knowing it would not be long and soon she would be alone.

Jude feared every slow blink, knowing that he would close his eyes for good very soon. She saw it in his face, even though he fought to keep it from her. He suffered greatly and for his sake she prayed that the end would come quickly. But for her own sake, she would not dare make such a wish. She tried to smile back, to show him that she would be all right. But it was like trying to put on a brave face when the world was ending—a sham, a lie. She thought he was a constant, that whatever else happened he would be there.

She held his cold hand and fought back the hot sting of the tears. "You'll be fine," she whispered, her brave smile more like a grimace.

He shook his head slowly. "It was silver, Jude," he said faintly, calling her bluff.

Reluctantly she looked away from his grim, practical, accepting face. A short distance away she could see the bright wink of the silver blade covered in thick crimson. There seemed to be blood everywhere. Her breath caught in her chest, escaping in harsh, choking sobs.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "You have…nothing," he said quietly, "to be sorry…for." He raised his hand, his icy fingers brushing her cheek. One warm tear raced down her pale, dirt-streaked skin as she leaned into the touch.

She choked on another sob. "Don't go," she cried like a child. "Don't go where I can't follow, Remus." Her hands clasped his, pressed tightly to her chest. She curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He touched her hair, but the gesture was already filled with an absence.

"I have to go," he said simply. "And you…you must stay…here."

Suddenly, she sat up violently. "I don't want to!" Her fingers were white from squeezing his hand so hard. "Everyone leaves me here!"

He smiled again, his gray eyes fixed on his sister. "I will…never leave you." He drew her back to him, her head on his shoulder, his hand in hers. She stopped sobbing and relaxed her aching body. She closed her eyes and knew he had as well.

When he breathed his last, Jude prayed that the next breath would be hers.

The smoke had cleared. The rain had slowed. The wind no longer howled in rage at the fortress perched upon the rock in the middle of the angry ocean.

They had gained the upper hand when Voldemort had fled. There were no heroes among the murderers, no honor among thieves. The vampires were the first to take to the wind—they had the least at stake and when they found that there was no easy prey to be had, they were gone.

Even fewer of the Death Eaters were willing to become martyrs. Those with reputations to uphold among respectable society wasted no time in leaving. Chief among them: Lucius Malfoy, especially careful that he had not been seen. Peter was not so careful.

Black fixed his dark eyes on the instantly recognized figure as he stood dazed, rubbing his palms together nervously, muttering silently. Sirius felt the familiar, galvanizing sensation of anger rising. He wanted Peter's blood on his hands so bad he could feel it. And when he'd assured himself that Harry was safe with the others under McGonagall's watchful guard, he charged after him, fighting his way through the crowds.

Pushing through the mob, however was like wading through thick mud. Very much outnumbered, Sirius found that he had to do a lot of damage to get a very short distance. Still, he remained fixated on Peter. So much so that he did not see where the blow had come from that had landed him flat on the hard stone floor, a sizable lump on the back of his head. Quickly he turned and saw her. The small figure, cloaked in a dark shroud although her hood had fallen and her face was unmasked, would have been unmistakable. Bellatrix Lestrange stared back with pure malice written on her face. She held a torch in one hand, its aged, weather-beaten appearance similar to every other torch in the fortress. In the other was a wand leveled lethally at his chest. On her lips was a smile that hid no smug triumph.

He swallowed hard as she threw her head back and laughed. "Say goodbye, Black," she said smoothly, her elegant voice having been little affected by years and years of Azkaban's hospitality.

"Goodbye," Black said, frowning. Bellatrix pitched forward, smile still firmly affixed to her frozen face. He jumped to his feet, glaring insolently at the figure that now stood where Lestrange had been. "I could have handled it," he barked ungratefully.

"I would have loved to see you try," Snape replied dryly. "Of course, I would have loved to see you as a crater." The professor, having narrowly escaped the hungry attentions of the vampires, quickly turned his back on his rival and scanned the crowd. "But I haven't got the time for games, Black." He suddenly saw what he was searching for. He turned back to Sirius, adding, "Neither do you."

They pushed through the last tatters of the crowd, coming to a halt just beyond where Sirius had locked eyes with Peter. Peter was there no longer, but Black continued to glare with rising anger at the spot. He was staring instead at a heap of fabric and limbs. Two bodies lay on the ground, one curled into the other. He recognized both.

Sirius felt the familiar stab of icy cold, but he knew that all the dementors had fled.

The intensity of the cold realization was nothing, however, to the cold, dead look in her eyes when she finally looked up at him—gray like frosted steel. Her jaw tensed as she gritted her teeth, reluctantly pushing herself up off the cold stone, her battered and abused body begging to remain there. The first step was shaky but the next one was easier. She moved deliberately, her eyes never moving from Sirius.

The icy anger was tangible all around her. She halted directly in front of Black, a few inches was all that separated them. She was shaking, but from cold, exhaustion or fury, he could only guess. In the next instant, Jude had summoned up the remains of her strength and slapped him. The force was surprising and Black was mildly dazed, the metallic tang of blood faintly startling. He registered confusion, pity, but little anger at her assault. This reaction seemed to only enrage her more, but when she raised her bruised and bloodied hand again, he caught it with a little too much might, feeling her slight bones beneath his crushing grip. Her fingers balled into a fist instantly, fighting to free herself of his grasp.

"Let her go," Snape ordered Black, stepping up to her side.

Black turned a scrutinizing glare on them both. Snape was just as ragged and worn as she—they looked as if they had been to hell and back twice. Looking at the pair of them, Black could still feel the tight scars of Azkaban on himself. His fingers loosened and he released her arm.

Snape wrapped an arm around her. They seemed as if they would fall over without the other to hold them up.

Black stared at her curiously, afraid to ask and fearing the answer he knew was coming. "Is he…?" The question escaped him as little more than a ragged breath.

Her face contorted in pain and grief. She covered her face and turning away from him. For her the loss was so eminent. She could not bear to watch someone else lose him.

For her sake, Black endured silently the loss of his last friend.

Author's Note: I am truly apologetic for having neglected this story for so long. These past few months have been uncommonly hectic—a death in my family, graduations, weddings, a job change…real life. Thanks to everyone for your kind patience and your continued readership. I cannot tell you what it means, really.

"Of course, I'd love to see you as a crater," comes from _Toy Story_.

Previously, I had Mrs. Lestrange named Cordelia, but after canon revealed her true name, I will change it in previous chapters.


	55. Pennance

 SEQ CHAPTER h r 1Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Penance

_'I can't ask for things to be still again_

_I can't ask for you_

_To offer the world through your eyes_

_Longing for home again_

_But home is a feeling I've buried _

_In you'_

_Greenwheel__, 'Breathe'_

                 _The sound of rushing water.__ It surrounded her, swallowed her. She was drowning, going under fast. _

_                She was conscious only of the sound…and of the distance that separated them. _

_                She cried out but even she could not hear her own voice. _

_                Help me, she begged. The man on the shore only watched sadly. He could not help…or he would not. Slowly he turned away._

_                Her last breath was icy as she was dragged under the raging water._

                Jude gasped and sat up suddenly. An electric shock of pain raced up her spine and her breath caught in her chest momentarily. She looked around, bewildered, grasping for anything familiar. Nothing was.

                A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. A man with a pleasant face stared back at her. She took in his appearance voraciously, hoping to recognize him. But she didn't.

                Her confusion must have shown because the man began explaining immediately, attempting with every effort to ease her.

                Jude listened patiently as he explained that she was in St. Mungo's. She frowned. He was a doctor, obviously and it was his job to see that she remained calm. But nothing would set her at ease. Every word brought dread as the night came back in blurred scenes.

                The sterile white of the room darkened to the dank, aged stone of the fortress in the sea. And she was there again, knees pressed to the cold, hard ground, watching him slowly die. She looked up for the briefest of moments. She hadn't realized that she'd seen Peter at that moment. She wasn't sure if she had in reality, but it seemed real enough in her memory. He locked eyes with her before he scurried off into the darkness.

                She was shaking. The doctor assured her that she was safe here, but it made little difference. She didn't hear him.

                "Miss Elliot," he said in a soothing, professional tone, "you need to relax. All right?" He forced her to look at him, to break away from her thoughts.

                Her breathing was fast and she was very cold. She stared at him without feeling. "I don't remember how I got here."

                He smiled blandly at that, consulting a chart he held. "I'd be surprised if you did," he muttered, flipping a few thick sheets of parchment. "A Mr. William Weasley brought you in," he read from the sheet. "The first of several admitted. Must have been a hell of a night." His eyes flicked up to her face to see how the humor was received. She continued to stare coldly.

                "And," she pressed on, "where are the rest?"

                He shook his head, feigning ignorance, but she wasn't buying it. With a heavy sigh, he answered. "Some have been released already, most of the children…"

                "Harry?" she asked without thought.

                The doctor smiled. "Our little celebrity? He's fine. Professor Dumbledore is with him."

                "Dumbledore," she said quietly. "Anyone else you can tell me about?" she asked after a pause.

                He gave her an appraising look, but decided against any more information. "You need to rest." He snapped the pages closed and stood up to leave. "I'll send someone in to fill you in on the details after you've gotten a bit of sleep, is that a deal?" he compromised with a pleasant smile that allowed for no argument. He turned toward the door. "Good," he said after a long silence from his patient.

                Jude stared blankly at the wall, showing no evidence of having heard him at all. When he reached for the door handle, she was on her feet with surprising speed. He swallowed his shock, holding out a hand to bar her way.

                "Where do you think you're going?" he asked harshly.

                She shrugged him off, pulling the door open. "You can't keep me here!" She felt the slight stiffness in her left wrist, but no pain. The bone had been healed, but her skin was still marked with livid purple bruises. She stepped through the door, feeling the dull ache in her shoulders and back, even as he tried to block her. She froze instantly, however, when two large figures appeared in front of her, two wands pointed menacingly at her.

                The doctor glared at the two guards with pointed anger. He turned to his patient with an apologetic look, his hand on her shoulder to steady her. "You should have remained in bed."

                She looked him over suspiciously. His polished badge identified him as Dr. Michael Jones. The name brought back sudden images of Michael, among the dead in Azkaban, and she shuddered. "Why are there guards outside my door?" she asked cautiously.

                He looked sheepish for a moment, then stern. He reminded her of Michael. "Let me find someone who will be able to explain this better," he pleaded courteously.

                She gave him a hard glare. "I didn't do anything wrong!" she raged. She turned to the guards, who seemed to tower over her, their faces immovably professional. "You can't keep me prisoner!" She shoved them aside, but they detained her with almost no effort. She struggled to free herself, making quite a noise about it. Dr. Jones added his objections loudly, protesting the treatment of his patient, demanding her release. They made no motion to obey even as a crowd gathered.

                "Let go of her," Dr. Jones ordered impatiently. Jude was fighting them, even though they held her easily in a vice grip. "Miss Elliot, don't struggle," he compromised.

                She seemed to calm a little, though it was to be only temporary. The doctor was reasoning with the guards when he arrived with an entourage like a small army. Reporters from every banner and rag swarmed around him like flies on a fresh kill. Her cool gray eyes flared with angry fire at the sight of him.

                "Ah," he said, his voice dripping oily disdain, "I see you are feeling better, Miss Elliot."

                She glared at him.

                Jones dared make her answer. "Minister," he said, his tone professionally courteous, "she is not yet well enough in my opinion. Couldn't this wait?" A thinly veiled effort to postpone the shock that awaited his young charge it was, but he hoped that the Minister would see the prudence. His answer came with a cruel smile.

                "This has waited long enough," Fudge said, giving Jude an appraising look filled with dislike. "Too long, in fact."

                Jude scowled. Yes, he'd been waiting long enough for this, to see her locked away.

                Several blinding flashes flickered furiously before her eyes, leaving white spots for several moments after. With a sinking feeling, Jude knew that her picture would be plastered all over the cover of every wizard paper in Britain by the morning. The reality was obvious: in light of Voldemort's escape there was no one to pin this whole fiasco on and the media demanded swift retribution. The world would know who and what she was by noon, even if it was all bollocks. She was the scapegoat—an easy out for Fudge, the pressure for action would lessen considerably if he had someone to take responsibility for what had happened.

                Jude looked around at the mob before her. Everyone stared back at her with a mixture of voracious curiosity and reluctant apprehension. They all believed her capable of all this—capable of kidnapping and imprisoning children, of torture, of unprecedented violence…of the murder of her own brother.

                The weight of the crimes was heavy. Staring out into the crowd of enemies, shouldering such a burden, Jude felt her breath come in shortening gasps and she stopped struggling. Not one friendly face stared back at her. She had been abandoned.

                Fudge smiled and raised his hand. The crowd fell obediently silent, waiting for his grim pronouncement. "The Ministry will take full possession of the prisoner immediately."

The words were a pointed jab at Dr. Jones, and he bristled visibly at them. "She will remain under guard here, at St. Mungo's of course." It was not a question and he was glad to see the Minister blanch at such assertion of authority against him. A quiet murmur rippled like a shockwave through the mob of reporters.

Fudge's lips spread in a slow, wicked smile. "Oh, I believe that is unnecessary," the Minister sneered.

Jude felt an icy chill race up her spine, the familiar oppression returning as the two goliath guards hemmed her in, taking iron grip of her bruised and battered arms.

The crowd held its breath as one, waiting for the pronouncement.

"Azkaban," the Minister said with relish. "She will return to the prison under the tightest of security."

There was a din of excited murmur, of quills scratching parchment, of the metallic clang flashbulbs made in the magical cameras. All she could hear, however, was her shallow breath, her wildly beating heart. She closed her eyes and fought from being sick. She was returning to Azkaban.

Jones' voice cut through the noise like a scalpel through flesh. "I do not consent to this, Minister," he pronounced with ill-concealed anger. "Let it be noted that her doctor has not released her and that she leaves under the strongest protest." He pressed his lips together into a thin, grim line. His words were feeble and would not stop this, he knew. But it was all he could do for her.

"It's noted," Fudge said ungraciously. He nodded to the guards and Jude fought not to wince as their grip tightened mercilessly. Fudge turned to her with a little flourish. "Shall we?" he laughed jovially as the guards pushed her forward into the mob. "I'm sure you will find the accommodations," he continued in good humor, "to be much as they were when you left." His smile curled with sinister delight.

Jude blinked and dodged the photographers as much as she could. Reporters, armed with quills and parchments enchanted to write what was spoken, shouted question after question at her. She shied away, eager to hide just how terrified she was at the moment. Anger, however, replaced much of the fear as a brightly dressed woman with glittering horn-rimmed glasses and a smile that seemed lacquered on her face stepped directly in front of her, barring her way and demanding attention.

Rita Skeeter.

She waved a lime green quill in the prisoner's face, smiling as Jude struggled to free herself from her captors. The acid expression that Rita inspired in Jude would have caused any other warm-blooded creature to quail. Rita Skeeter, however stood her ground.

"Give us a word, Miss Elliot," Skeeter cooed, waiting expectantly like a child at a candy counter.

Jude glared, her teeth clenched angrily. "Just one word, Rita?" Jude asked. "I'll give you three."

Rita brightened at this and held her quill at the ready.

"Go to hell," Jude spat. Rita gracefully imitated shock, pressing her hand dramatically to her heart. The guards shoved past her with their prisoner.

Fudge was left amidst the crowd while Jude was muscled and dragged down the hall. Just before the hulking giants pushed her through a thick double door, Jude stopped, straining to hear. Rita's clear voice rang above the din.

"So, Minister," she began cheerfully, "should we, as citizens, expect the deterioration of our democracy now that basic rights seem to be null and void?" Rita smiled wider as Fudge baulked, unable to answer. "Should we fear being accused without trial and shipped off to Azkaban? If it could happen to one, it could happen to all. Don't you agree, Minister?"

Fudge was spluttering.

Jude frowned, puzzled. As she was shoved through the doors, she could hear Skeeter continue. "Is marshal law next, Minister? Are there any efforts to hunt down and capture You-Know-Who?"

The doors slammed behind her and she could hear no more. The world spun with a sickening dizziness, and then she could see no more.

Author's Note: Short, yes. But another chapter is hot on its heels. I had hoped to upload these two chapters last week, a sort of two-year anniversary marker for _Jude._ But…well. Thanks for the two years, everyone.

The lines "Give us a word," "Just one…how about three—go to hell," is from _Chicago__._


	56. The Straight Story

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The Straight Story

__

_'__You can't fake it hard enough to please_

_Everyone or anyone at all.___

_And the grave that you refuse to leave,_

_The refuge that you built to flee,_

_Is the place that you have come to fear the most.'_

'The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most,' Dashboard Confessional 

The moon looked down from its lofty perch in a clear sky, a protective eye watching diligently. Sleep was bearing down heavily on her once more, exhaustion tugging her eyelids down. Hours, days, who knew? She could no longer feel the passage of time in this frozen, forgotten wasteland, this fortress of stone. The moon, unmovable guard, the sentinel keeping watch ceased its march across the heavens. Or so it had seemed the last time her mind had slid back to the surface of consciousness, the last time her eyes had taken in the dreary walls that tucked her away neatly in oblivion.

And if the world was content to forget, she felt willing to oblige.

Her eyes slipped closed, shutting out the prying moonlight, the dark shadows waiting on the perimeter, the black scrawls on the walls directly in front of her etched by the hands of the condemned, begging her to hear them. She could no longer hear; she could no longer feel; she didn't shiver against the cold anymore, did not feel the scratch of the wool blankets against her skin. Intervals of consciousness were less frequent now, although she had no way of knowing this. Time ticked down now marked only by her slow shallow breathing.

The ragged threads of reality smoothed now into a thoughtless sleep. No one wanted to forget more than she did.

Four bright pink nails tapped incessantly at the scrubbed wood of the table, attracting many an angry look from neighboring patrons. The owner of the rosy talons was unmoved by their complaints. Indeed, she seemed rather lost to the world around her, absorbed as she was in the paper spread on the table in front of her. With her other hand, Rita Skeeter pushed her rhinestone glasses further up her nose, her red lips crumpled into a pout. The tap, tap, tap ticked off the seconds as she read, tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron. Her impatience with the headlining article was growing.

Scandal, betrayal, tragedy, and breathless slander—all the earmarks of journalism which she held dear—this could very well have been an article of her very own fashioning. But where was the originality, the fresh perspective? She tossed the paper down on the table and glanced around her, not for once seeing the angry glares. Leaving off tapping the table, she seized her quill and resumed a rhythmic thump, thump, thumping on the wood.

The same old stuff for two days now, no one had come up with anything different to say about strange, seditious servant of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sometime student of Dumbledore's, this Jude Elliot, who seemed to come from nowhere, and even more to the point, seemed to gravitate to the center of whatever trouble there was to be had. Rita traced a long pink fingernail over the photo of the girl, fighting with guards, so deliciously delinquent, even in the sepia tones of print. She couldn't help but salivating. Like a hound she smelled a story unlike the trite and tailored facts that every other paper had teased out of the past, probably according to the Minister's bidding, no doubt. Beyond the doctored dates, the circumstantial statements, there was something worth reading, and for the first time in her career, Rita found herself curious to ferret out the truth, to get to the bottom of all the gossip mongering, and political positioning. Behind the smoke and the screens, there she would find the real story. The story only this Miss Elliot could tell.

Rita tickled her chin with the acid colored quill. A slow smile crept upon her lips as she remembered the words that horrid girl had left her with. "I shall take your advice, Miss Elliot," she concluded absently. "To hell I shall go."

Dr. Jones chewed nervously at his thumbnail as he stared absently at a patient he could do little for. The whimpering, fitful sleeps, plagued by dreams one could only imagine, unsettled him. But this was worse—the unmoving, quiet sleeps in which he had to constantly reassure himself that she was still breathing. Two days, he calculated, dropping his head into his palms as he sat in an unforgiving wooden chair, snuggled into the cold corner of the inhospitable cell, where he snatched what little sleep he could in this wretched place.

He heaved a sigh. It could be worse, he consoled himself—dementors could have the run of the place. Thankfully he did not have to deal with those creatures on top of the demons that plagued his charge already. He rubbed his eyes. This place was just as lethal as dementors, he thought, tugging his cloak closer over his shoulders. It was cold here. He stood to his feet and motioned the guard over to unlock the door, he having given over his wand to the watchman in exchange for this corner office and hopeless patient. The guard nodded, rising to his feet, back and legs creaking with age, bearing the grizzled man away from his paper and cozy fire, to the dim, iron barred cage. Dr. Jones let his gaze linger on the paper the man dropped on the desk. Yesterday's headline bearing a photo of his patient, a less than glowing review of her short, murderous life.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder. Perhaps this wasn't the right thing, as he'd so self-righteously justified to his confused superiors. Maybe she deserved this. The grating of the ancient key in the rusted lock drew his attention back to the door. The old man smiled kindly at him, one of the rotating guard exiled here with them to be forgotten on this frozen rock in the middle of the sea. The old man pulled the bars back carefully, allowing the doctor to slip past, casting a wary glance at the prisoner, a slumbering dog, perhaps vicious.

The doctor recalled his attention. "Would you send this as soon as possible?" He pushed a thin envelope into the guard's grizzled hand.

The guard flipped the envelope over and read the direction. "Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." His misty, age-yellowed eyes slid from the envelope to the young doctor's face. "Haven't you heard, then?"

Dr. Jones frowned. "Heard what?"

The old guard looked down to the bit of parchment in his hand once more. "Never thought I would live to see the day." The man stared blankly. "Dumbledore ain't headmaster no more."

Dr. Jones gave him a hard look. "Not headmaster anymore?" He furrowed his brow, thinking. "The deputy in charge now, then?"

The guard shook his head and ushered him over to the warmth of the fire. Dr. Jones cast a protective glance in his patient's direction but decided finally for his own comfort. "She ain't in charge either. No, it's a Ministry appointee. Don't recollect the name, though."

Shrugging his cloak higher around his neck, Jones paused to let his weary mind catch up. "Albus Dumbledore is where, did you say?"

"I didn't," the old man said archly, casting his hands closer to the flames, turning a raised eyebrow in his direction. When he understood that the doctor was not one to play games, he continued instantly. "St. Mungo's, under observation, I believe it is called in your profession."

He nearly guffawed. "Under observation? For what? I observed him in sound health the very day I left for this hell."

"Mental stress," the old man said with a confused expression, "Minister says that the attack on the school was all his doing. All the affect of years of mental stress, the old crow's just not right in the head, they say."

The wheels were turning in the doctor's head, trying to produce a new and favorable outcome for these unforeseen circumstances. He had counted on Dumbledore's intervention in Miss Elliot's case, and now the old Headmaster's silence made perfect sense. The Minister was covering something up. "Mental stress," Jones breathed to himself, "A great load of tripe that is."

The guard turned to the doctor with curiosity. "Had you the pleasure of knowing the old fellow. Very distinguished, so I had heard."

"Yes," Jones said tightly, still trying to see through this sudden fog. "He was Headmaster for all my years at Hogwarts. I know him for a good man, and a great teacher." A little of the dismal, pride-wounding, school recollections threatened to creep in but he shoved them back. He was no longer the chubby Hufflepuff he had once been. And he had a job to do. He took the letter back from the guard and added a postscript before readdressing it. "Who again did you say was observing him?"

A gap-toothed smile answered him. "I didn't," he answered with mirth. Still, he obliged by flipping through the _Prophet_ for the revelatory passage. "Ah," he said, fingering his thick spectacles and grinning at the grim doctor. "He is under the care of Letitia Gordon," the old man said with a sly grin.

"_Doctor_ Letitia Gordon," Jones corrected mildly. "Famous for the Lockhart case, yes I know her." And for the first time in the past few days, Dr. Michael Jones smiled. He finished the redirection of Dumbledore's letter, adding Dr. Gordon's name. He breathed a little easier. Gordon was no fool, he knew. They together could get to the bottom of this ill-played charade. He handed the letter back to the guard.

"Dr. Gordon," said the nurse with an air of rushed afterthought. "This came for you not but two minutes ago." She pushed a letter into the woman's hand before slipping away down the corridor, no time for questions.

Letitia Gordon let her cunning hazel eyes rove over the surface of the letter, recognizing the untidy scrawl of her colleague anywhere. Jones was famous for his illegible hand. She wrinkled her smooth pale brow and tucked the letter into the stack of files in her arm. Pushing the door to the ward open, she reset her features into the blandly professional, pleasing and open countenance that calmed so many of her nutty patients.

Casting her scrutinizing glare over the room, she assessed everything instantly. Frank was by the window coaxing a wad of Droobles Best Blowing Gum into a bubble of enormous size. Next to him, his wife Alice rocked a bundle of blankets, gently cooing. Isabelle, to Gordon's vexation, was standing atop a table, a sheet stretched over her head. She jumped before the doctor had a chance to interject, watching carefully if the sheet inflated while gravity did its work. Isabelle claimed to be inventing something called a parachute. Dr. Gordon shook her head, warning her patient to be careful but allowed her to continue to clamber over the table once more. The doctor continued to make her way across the room to where her newest charge sat patiently, staring out of the window.

"Here," a voice called out from across the room, "have an autograph." Gilderoy Lockhart beamed at her as he shoved a signed photo of himself into her hand. She regarded it with a fond look, indulgent as a mother.

"Thank you, Gilderoy." She held the picture before her eyes and smiled warmly. "A very nice job you did on the signature, too! I shall put it in my office directly," she said brightly, tactfully leaving off how many others had gone the way this one was destined to—adorning the bin, that is. "But right now, Gilderory, I must speak to that gentleman over there."

The one-time celebrity followed the direction of her nod, his eyes taking in the lone figure of the old man. "Oh, I've already given him three autographs," he announced proudly. "A hound that one is!" His eyes brightened as he began to descend upon the old man once more. Letitia knew who the real hound was of this pair. Lockhart pushed another photo into the aged professor's hand amid docile remarks of "very kind of you," and "so good of you to think of me." Gordon made her way over and gently shooed Lockhart away.

Lockhart bounded off across the room calling out to Isabelle and waving a photo. The doctor watched him go before turning her attention to the august presence of Albus Dumbledore. The former Headmaster sighed and tossed the signed photograph of his former Defense teacher on the pile of identical glossy sheets. He returned his eyes to the fogged window and resumed his vigilant stare.

"Do you know what it is to feel hopeless?" he asked quietly, somewhat startling Dr. Gordon.

She smiled, recovering her poise, shoving her glasses up her nose rather roughly. Wasn't she supposed to begin with the questions, she thought with ire? Still, she furrowed her brow, digesting the feelings and frustrations her patient was imparting to her. "Is that how you feel right now?"

The Headmaster offered a chiding smile. "You are an intelligent woman. You may dispense with the gloves as concerns me, doctor. Questions like that only lead in circles."

Letitia swallowed hard. "Look," she said, leaning in with a confiding sense of secrecy, "I know you don't belong in here. You are as sane as I am." Straightening her robes a little neurotically, she cast a furtive glance around her, suspiciously almost. Dumbledore watched her shrewdly. "Something is going on here, I'll grant you that. But," she continued bleakly, "we won't get anywhere chasing our tails." She produced a piece of parchment from her files and handed it over to the scrutiny of the old man.

He frowned, examining the lines of text closely, before handing it back to her, shaking her head with a sad, stoical smile. "I will never put my name to that."

She took the paper back with a peeved look. "Professor," she said, control stiffening her soothing voice, "without signing this statement, you could remain here…indefinitely." She glanced around her at the people surrounding them, their paper flower existence, this unreality the only world that they knew. "You don't want that, do you?"

He returned his stoical glare to the frosted panes of the window and said nothing.

"Sign this and you can go home," she urged.

He shook his head slowly. "Hogwarts is my home. If I sign that pack of lies, I will hand the school over to that fool of a Minister and his dolt appointees for good. I would never betray my station in such a selfish manner."

The doctor's lips pressed together impatiently. "With your freedom, Professor, you could find the truth."

"And who would believe me then?" He turned a sharp glare on the young woman. "Should I endorse the Minister's fluff and nonsense, to say that I neglected my post, chased some cock and bull story about dark lords and shadows of evil, then I have discredited everything I would say thereafter." He sighed wearily. "The truth would be lost then."

Letitia rubbed her temple. "The truth," she spat ruefully, forgetting her professional tact for the barest moment. "Who's to say that the Minister is wrong?"

He favored her with a wry look, the sparkle of his eye not having dimmed by the circumstances. "What does your heart tell you, dear doctor?"

"My heart," she said in disbelief, rolling her neck to relieve some tension, "It says that this is quite a protest for a guilty man. Either that, or you are delusional." She laughed and was glad to see the professor join her.

"The Minister has thrown a great deal of caution to the wind and I am afraid, my dear, that he is reaping a whirlwind." Dumbledore glanced out the window once more. "I have a hope that the Minister will not be able to sweep this one under the rug."

Gordon's eyes sparkled with many unasked questions. She dared not pry in what seemed a large fiasco indeed, however. But curiosity…

"Lord Voldemort has been walking among us this past year, my dear Dr. Gordon," Dumbledore said sagely, wisely prompted by her silence. "The Minister has refused to act, against my advice and the advice of several others. Indeed, he has refused even to believe it. Now he scrambles to place the blame elsewhere."

"Elliot," Letitia said, pulling the name from the facts scattered across every paper. "She's the one the Minister blames. Packed her off to Azkaban that same night, I believe."

Dumbledore frowned, turning his restrained but stormy expression to the doctor. "Azkaban? Are you quite sure?"

Letitia nodded. "Yes. The prison was cleared of dementors, though. She is the only prisoner there now."

The Headmaster looked seriously shaken. The doctor was worried that she had caused him no small amount of distress. "Miss Elliot has been a trusted friend, she does not deserve to bear the weight of Fudge's folly." He examined the doctor's expression closely. "Have you any news of her? She was not well the last time I saw her."

Gordon gave a little jump at the recollection that she perhaps held that answer in a forgotten letter. "Here," she said, passing the letter into his hand. "This could perhaps answer that for you."

Dumbledore took the letter eagerly but bridled by considerable caution. He did not recognize the hand that had written it. He read with mounting alarm as Dr. Gordon explained. "The letter was written by Dr. Jones, a colleague of mine, apparently Miss Elliot's doctor. He gave up his position here to go to Azkaban. I wonder why he addressed the letter to you?" she mused openly, attempting to read over his shoulder.

The old professor crumpled the note in his hand, obviously distressed. The doctor tried to calm him, but he did not heed her. He stood to his feet. "I must go immediately," he announced.

She shook her head, holding up a restraining hand. "That is quite impossible," she informed the old man. "The ward is guarded. There is no way out."

Dumbledore breathed deeply, controlling his temper. "I cannot let the Minister get away with this." He held up the crumpled letter.

Letitia was alarmed. "Calm yourself," she pleaded. "You will do no one any good by working yourself into a state."

Wearily he nodded, slumping into the chair.

Dr. Gordon watched him warily. "Let me see what I can do for you. I don't promise anything, but…" She headed for the door, unable to formulate a plan that would lead to a favorable outcome. There was no harm in trying anyway.

Before she slipped out the door, the Headmaster turned to her, a glossy autographed picture in his hand. "Dr. Gordon," he said rationally enough, "do you suppose I could borrow a quill?"

The pounding in his head matched the thwock, thwock, thwock sound of the grungy tennis ball smacking the sacred walls of his study. The scratch of claws scuttled back and forth in a synchronized rhythm. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He still felt the exhaustion and stress clinging to him, leaving him in a half-fog. And he was agitated. His black eyes glittered with impatience and annoyance, but the offender did not seem to notice one bit.

Feet kicked up over the chair's arm, he reclined with his head hanging over the other side, hair untidy, thin strands of the lightest color dangling carelessly. The ball flew from his hand, connecting forcefully with the wall in the same spot every time. A lazy smile crossed the boy's face when the dog would make a jump for it, miss then come scurrying back across the floor for another shot at it. It went on and on in an unceasing cycle.

He rubbed his hands over his face. His eyes were dry and red, a knot of tension had formed in his shoulder. Once more his gaze fell to the papers scattering his desk, his elbow resting on a particularly nasty piece of work. Jude looked positively deranged in that photo. The words weren't all too forgiving either. But what bothered him more than the lies, the outrageous stories, was the lack of any real news. A paralyzing feeling it was, to worry. He had never felt so far away from her as he did now.

The thwock of the ball did not stop. His dark gaze rested on several crumpled, tossed aside letters, all begging information of her past. A gem, this one was—from Rita Skeeter. He was not surprised. That woman would sniff out scandal like a dog on a scent. He pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus on the problem. Without Dumbledore, he could not see a way out of the mess. If only he could think straight.

"Mr. Malfoy, feet on the floor." McGonagall's stern reproach cut the rhythm of the ball and the dog. He sat up at the sound of his name, but gave the old woman a sour look. "That is no way to behave. Tossing a ball around indoors?" She gave him a withering stare as she marched into the room with tea.

Draco threw himself back into the large chair languidly. "Darcy is bored," he drawled with a lazy carelessness. "I'm bored," he added with a slight whine.

Professor Snape was barely listening. "You can't go home, if that is what you are after." And with a slight echo of amusement he offered, "I could send you with Potter to the Weasley's if you would rather." He raised an eyebrow, judging by the boy's look of utter horror and decided that he could very well put up with the tedium of the abbey for a short while.

"I dare say he would not," McGonagall chuckled. She set a cup of tea in front of Professor Snape, a stern look daring him to refuse it. McGonagall offered the same to Draco, but the boy shook his head.

Snape regarded his student for a moment. No, it wasn't boredom that accounted for this restlessness. He was distracted—a lot had happened. The professor caught himself glaring at nothing in particular, a little dazed. "You may take the dog outside if you like." It was more an order than an offer. Still, Draco was on his feet in no time. He called Darcy to him and they hurried to the door eagerly. "It is unlikely here, but you are to speak to no one, Draco. Is that clear?"

With his hand on the doorknob, Draco shrugged and nodded. The boy discerned in a moment that both he and McGonagall were on edge, so he said nothing more and quickly left. Outside the confining walls of the study, Draco paused, eyes narrowed. If he didn't know better, it seemed that they were hiding.

Darcy's low growls pulled his attention away. The tiny shadow of a house elf skittered off down the hall. The dog however was growling at a tall, dark figure. Draco wrinkled his nose in obvious dislike and called Darcy off down the corridor, casting an acid look back over his shoulder. Sirius Black nodded briefly in his direction before continuing into the study, closing the door tightly behind him.

At the soft click of the door, Snape's eyes flicked upward. He leaned back at his desk and stared evenly at Black. Sirius looked away immediately, coming to rest on McGonagall's kinder face. The old woman sat near the fire in a high backed chair. The lines in her face were more pronounced than ever. Snape continued to glare at the back of Black's head, bristling with animosity. The professor took a deep breath, returning his hostile dark eyes to the _Daily Prophet_ before him.

"So?" Snape asked, veiling thinly his dislike.

Black, remaining standing, took a deep breath. "The Minister has released Arthur and his son. Kingsley as well. Moody is still in for questioning, but Arthur expects his release soon." He ran a hand through his tangled black hair and took a deep breath. He cast an uneasy glance around the room. Snape was not looking at anything beyond the black and white of the paper, so Black rested his restless glare on McGonagall. "And it seems that this room contains three of the most wanted criminals."

McGonagall pressed her eyes closed for a minute and shook her head. Snape gave a little sniff of laughter. "Well," McGonagall said finally, "It is as we expected. Dumbledore suspected that the Minister would start crying conspiracy."

"Any news of Lucius Malfoy?" Snape asked abruptly.

Black shook his head. "Still missing."

"Do we have any idea what his son was doing in such a place?" McGonagall asked of the room at large, concern peppering her severe tone. "I cannot believe that his father would have deliberately put him in danger. Whatever one could claim about the man's character, at least he took an interest in his child."

Snape looked thoughtful. "It was time for him to make his choice." He said it so offhandedly that both Black and McGonagall stared. It was impossible to mistake his meaning.

"Well," McGonagall said dryly after a moment's silence had elapsed. "We are in agreement then that the boy should not at any cost be allowed to return to his father, should he return to the land of the living?"

Black was pensive, Snape brooding. "Where else is he to go? His mother is dead. He has no close relations." It was Snape's cold reply. "Most likely raised by the servants," he added to himself. It was a very familiar scenario. "All of them in Lucius' pocket."

McGonagall was thoughtful for a moment. "You have been most kind, Severus, in extending us this invitation. With Hogwarts, and indeed everywhere else barred to us, the abbey has been an invaluable asylum." Her words were soothing and gracious. "Perhaps," she began her amendment, but paused.

Snape's head was in his hands once more. "I have not had a child of his age in this house for ten years," he said quietly.

"Of course," she added, "everything will be righted soon. Once Dumbledore has regained Hogwarts, then the boy will undoubtedly stay there."

He was hardly listening any more. His thoughts had always been with Jude. Nothing else occupied his mind. He consented to McGonagall's request without hearing himself do so. It was not so hard to remember her when she was Draco's age. Had he truly fulfilled his duty to Dumbledore as concerned her, that McGonagall was honestly considering charging him with another?

If only he could have some word of her.

Black seemed to have read his thoughts and was shaking his head. "There was nothing to be heard of her, other than she has been sent to Azkaban, which we all knew. And they say that no news is good news, right?" he added hopefully.

Snape shot him a scathing look. He knew better. For sixteen years he had known Jude Elliot, and when things became a little rough, he knew her to be a good deal unstable. "She's just lost her brother," he calculated without realizing that he spoke aloud, the mixed expression on Black's face unnoticed. "Perhaps she thinks that she has lost the support of everyone she cared for. Right now," he concluded with a sharp glance at McGonagall, "Jude is her own worst enemy."

McGonagall shook her head. "Severus," she said rationally, "that was years ago. You don't suspect that now…" Her statement went unfinished as she flashed a discreet look in Sirius' direction.

Snape glared at the old woman levelly. "It happened again," he informed her matter-of-factly, "almost three years ago."

McGonagall had a hand to her mouth. Black wore a bemused expression. "She won't do it," Sirius said abruptly, earning him a loathing stare from Snape and a worried, disbelieving look from McGonagall. "She won't give Fudge the satisfaction. I spent twelve years in that place, knowing that everyone had turned their back on me. I know," he said with confidence, "trust me."

From the expression on Snape's face, it was clear that he would trust Sirius Black about as far as he would be able to throw him.

The current of animosity that ran electrically between them was broken for a moment when there came a tapping at the door that led out onto the grounds and the cliff beyond. The door opened and Draco's blond head popped in.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, looking anything but sorry. "But a letter just came." He strode into the room, Darcy at his heels, a bit of parchment sticking out of her slobbery jaws.

"An owl?" McGonagall asked, gingerly removing the sodden scrap of paper from the dog's slimy grasp.

Draco shook his head. "Paper airplane," he said blandly, watching McGonagall finger the paper with disgust.

Minerva examined the letter with a curious expression. It appeared to be an intricately folded autographed photo of…Gilderoy Lockhart. She frowned, turning it over. There was another letter folded neatly inside of it. McGonagall almost cried out for joy to see the tidy hand of Professor Dumbledore on the back of the photo. She laid the other letter aside, relishing the short statement in her master's own script. But in an instant, her enraptured expression turned to one of distress. With quick and nimble fingers, she smoothed the second letter out and her sharp eyes scanned it swiftly. She paled, turning to Professor Snape.

"It is as we have feared, Severus." She swallowed hard, passing him the letters. "It was from Albus at St. Mungos. He seems quite alarmed, insists it is quite serious what the doctor has said."

Snape's frown deepened. He dropped the letters on his desk and stood. "I am going," he said simply.

McGonagall shook her head sternly. "You cannot!" she commanded. "You are wanted, a criminal. Here you are safe, no one can find you. But the second you set foot outside these wards, then what good will you be to her?" She had a tight grip on the sleeve of his robes. He glared acidly.

"What would you have me do?" he bellowed, the hopelessness of the situation having teased his temper to fever pitch. "I will not abandon her as she has convinced herself that I have."

"We have not abandoned her," McGonagall shouted back, scandalized. "We must be shrewd however, Severus. A foolish charge at the gates would do nobody justice."

He slumped back into his chair, casting about for anything, any way that he could reasonably help the situation. He felt lost in his own house. The crack as his hand came down hard on the solid desk caused Minerva to jump slightly. The paper crumpled easily under his white-knuckled grip, his face red with fury. His black eyes danced with rage for a moment and then suddenly, his stoical calm returned. Quickly, he spread out the paper crumpled in his fist and grabbed a quill, writing furiously.

McGonagall frowned and stepped closer for a glance. He did not look up.

Finally, Snape seemed to have done, setting his quill aside. "Perhaps," he said with more reserve now, "we could turn Fudge's weapon against him." He handed McGonagall a letter of his own, addressed to one Rita Skeeter.

Rita could hardly contain her giddy excitement. In her hand she held a veritable arsenal, highly effective tools, every one of them, which would help her tease out the story of the year. Hell, she thought, checking her reflection one last time in a small hand mirror, possibly the story of the century. She gave herself a wink and a wry smile. All right, she chided herself, don't get too carried away—this was going to require all of her powers of finesse to get this baby to print. Tucking the mirror back into her alligator handbag, she shot the guard a dazzling look and he waved her on, turning a modest shade of scarlet.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust as she passed from the intoxicating brightness of a clear winter's day at sea to the bleak, claustrophobic underworld darkness of the fortress. This place had that smell—musty age, like a damp cellar in an ancient mansion. She shivered briefly. A cellar, only not wine—this place packed away the dregs of society.

Pressing her handbag against her immaculately tailored robes of the most shocking pink, Rita felt the assurance of the papers she held like a safety line. Like Aeneas, she must suck it up and find her way through the labyrinth, but this was her golden thread, these letters; they would lead her not only back where she started, but beyond. To glory.

Chasing the smile back to her lips, she had another dazzler for this sentry. The old man regarded her with a pleasant look.

"Miss Skeeter?" he asked with a raise of his bushy gray eyebrows.

"Call me Rita," she answered winningly, sliding the first of her talismans into the guard's open hand.

He smiled briefly before scrutinizing the pass. Everything seemed to be in order. The Minister's personal request that Miss Skeeter interview the prisoner had been passed on to him just this morning. He handed her the pass and she quickly tucked it back into her bag.

"Is there anything I could get for you, Miss Skeeter?" he asked politely. "Anything at all to make you more comfortable in this dreadful place?" Instinctually, he stepped closer to the small fire he'd vigilantly tended in the grate behind him.

Rita ignored the icy sting in her hands and smiled. It was fucking freezing in this rat hole. "I am perfectly comfortable," she reassured him, lying as naturally as she breathed. "May I see the prisoner now?" She could hardly contain herself.

The guard shifted uneasily, a nervous glance tracing the path to the cell in question. "Of course," he said tensely. "But," he amended, hesitating, "I cannot guarantee that she will talk." The old man looked crestfallen to admit it to Rita. "She has not spoken a word since she has been here."

Rita tugged on her handbag, narrowing her eyes at the bars determinedly. "Oh she'll talk," she said quietly. With a few quick strides, Rita came to a stop before the iron bars. It was a few seconds before the guard bustled over, keys jangling to let her in. She could not help but let a little of the impatience she felt show as he fumbled with the lock. Damn tedious, she thought. Why not just use a wand like normal people?

Finally, the old man pulled the bars back and allowed her to step inside. She gave a cry and jumped, startled to nearly run into someone. Dr. Jones stood just inside the shadows, directly blocking her path. He gave her a hard stare.

Rita regained her composure quickly and soon was all smiles and affability. "Didn't see you there," she said, laying a hand on his arm.

He glared from her hand to her face. "Obviously," he said dryly. "Who are you?" the doctor asked with harshness, turning his angry glare on the guard. The old man was backing away from the cell with his hands up, shrugging his shoulders.

Rita was nonplussed. Without missing a beat, she extended her hand. "Rita Skeeter, Journalist," she crowed proudly.

Dr. Jones gave her a measuring stare. "Ah, yes. Your reputation precedes you," he said coldly. He did not take her hand.

A reassessment of the battle plan was in order, she discerned. "I am here by permission of the Minister," she said primly. "I intend to interview the prisoner."

The doctor shook his head. "I cannot allow that," he answered her crossly, immovable.

Rita glanced over her shoulder and right on cue, the old guard chimed in quietly, standing just beyond the threshold, lapping up every word. "Actually, Dr. Jones," he said meekly, "It was ordered. You must."

Dr. Jones was openly annoyed. Rita pushed her way through, shooting him a triumphant smile. The doctor folded his arms over his chest and glared from his corner. "Fine," he conceded with ill humor. "Be my guest. Only, I am not leaving." As if to solidify his position, he planted himself firmly in his chair. "The moment she becomes agitated or distressed, Miss Skeeter," Dr. Jones intoned gravely, "I will escort you from the room myself. Are we clear?"

Rita's eyes flashed behind the rhinestone glasses. "Crystal."

Dr. Jones huffed with indignant annoyance, but fell silent. It was a silence that was tangible, like the air between them had frozen. Rita shivered. Here, it might be possible. She gathered her resolve around her like a cloak and set to work. Turning her connoisseur's eye to her subject, Rita assessed the situation with a shrewish intelligence. The girl in question was lying on a dingy cot, wrapped in a dingy blanket, facing a dingy wall. Her back was to Rita. The girl did not move.

Skeeter swallowed a sigh of impatience and bent closer to the limp figure. "Miss Elliot," Rita said quietly, hoping to rouse her. "Jude." She could feel Dr. Jones' eyes on her back, judging, waiting. "I want to ask you a few questions. Questions about…"

Dr. Jones put a hand on her shoulder. Rita shot him a venomous look, then quickly removed her hand from the girl's arm. She hadn't realized she was shaking her. Rita wheeled around on Jones, throwing the very small, guilty feelings out the window. "Look," she shouted, "all I want to do is get a few answers from her. Let her give her side of the story, instead of making up a pack of lies."

Jones was glaring at her, his hand still on her sleeve. "That would be a first," he mumbled.

Rita had parted her ruby lips and was about to shoot him a snide remark, but she choked on her words.

"I'm so tired." The words were so faint, Rita half-believed that it was only in her head. But Dr. Jones was staring in the same direction, a quizzical, concerned look on his face. Rita waited for her to continue, hoping, praying that she would. But Dr. Jones had heard enough.

"Come now," he said, tugging her by the arm. "That's enough!"

She yanked her arm from his grasp and rounded on him, eyes blazing. "She has a right to her say, hasn't she?" Rita yelled.

"I'm so tired," she breathed again, "of justifying myself. Over and over again." She was facing them, her eyes open, but glassy, dazed. It seemed to have cost her everything to speak. Her breathing was heavy, panting like a runner.

Dr. Jones hurried over to her side, asking her questions, picking, prodding. She raised a hand and pushed him away weakly. Her eyes were fixed on Rita.

"Miss Elliot," Rita began again obsequiously.

Jude closed her eyes for a moment. "Rita," she said faintly, "why the bother? Just make something up."

Rita smiled slyly. The girl's insolence took her back to the time she had first met her. She admitted to that mistake. Rita would not underestimate Jude Elliot ever again. She reminded herself to remain on her toes, to stay on edge. This girl was not to be taken lightly, even in such a condition.

"I have something better in mind." She popped open her alligator handbag and with a relish produced the second magical bit of paper. "Here," she said proudly, waving a bit of parchment around, "is a document containing several signatures, people who would like to see you released. You wouldn't want to let them down, now would you?"

Slowly, Jude opened her eyes again and looked blankly at Rita.

"The names," Rita continued, "follow testimonies. Accounts," she said smoothly, "of what happened that night. These are witnesses."

Jude coughed, shrugging the blanket closer to her chin. She was unimpressed. "Give it to the council, Skeeter. Leave me be."

Rita waved with impatience. "The council was dissolved. Anyway, these testimonies would be inadmissible regardless—everyone of these witnesses are underage."

Despite herself, Jude squinted, making out a few names. She felt cold. All of the names belonged to students, mere children, which she had gotten into this nightmare. Jude squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to hear another word.

"Give me your side of the story, Jude," Rita was coaxing. "Match their testimonies in front of these witnesses. You will be a free woman."

Jude breathed with obvious strain. "Fudge would never allow it."

"Hang Fudge," Rita said sharply. "This is between you and me, Elliot. Tell me your story. Give me the truth."

Jude closed her eyes once more. "No," she answered dully.

Rita bit her lip. She wasn't finished. She pulled out the last piece of paper. Unfolding it, she handed it to Jude. "Here," she said, pushing the paper into Jude's icy grasp. "Read this and perhaps you will feel differently."

Jude focused with difficulty on the parchment, but she recognized the sharp spikes of the immaculate hand. And her heart sank further with every word. The voice was one that she would instinctively obey, but she never would have thought that he would ask her to do this. It was clear, however, that Professor Snape was ordering her to talk. She let the paper fall to the floor.

Her mouth was dry when she opened it again, her breath shallow gasps. "What do you want to know?"

Rita's crocodilian smile spread wider. "Everything."

It took a while, and it cost Rita everything she possessed in the way of patience. Slow going was only the half of it. Quite a shocking story, Rita was surprised to discover. A better piece of fiction she could not have constructed. But what was more, she believed every word of it. Hanging on every syllable, Rita took scrupulous notes and in an instant, she knew exactly what an impact this story would have. Elliot's story as concerned Minister Fudge was the best of it, in Rita's estimation, and under her skillful craftsmanship, her words would be exquisitely catastrophic. Rita was positively salivating by the end.

Dr. Jones listened with quiet shock. What a tale! Surely some of it had been embellished, he thought. Still, her story fit with the testimonies of the students present at the time, and though he did not want to buy it, her words had convinced even the skeptical mind of a man of science. He found himself boiling with quiet outrage. It was a sentiment that would soon be shared around the community, if Rita had it her way.

By the time it was over, Jude felt as if every last bit of her had been stolen away. Her most private recollections had been sold to the press. What a sensational story it would make! But it had cost her dearly. Nothing remained to her any longer.

"Miss Elliot," Rita Skeeter concluded, "Thank you very much." Rita extended her rosy-nailed hand, but Jude could not raise hers to take it. Rita's smile dimmed a little, but she nodded, gratified nonetheless. "It has been a privilege. I assure you that I will do everything in my power to get you released. You have my word."

Jude nodded briefly before closing her eyes. She wished she could trust the word of such a person. Rita turned her back and left, heels clicking on the ancient stone, retreating, climbing back into the world of the living. Dr. Jones took Jude's hand, bustling around her. Jude did not listen, let alone answer, any of the doctor's questions before she drifted back into sleep.

Cornelius Fudge greeted the day with a smile, slipping on his slippers and whistling as he got out of bed. He had a jovial greeting for the busy little house elf that brought in his breakfast and the morning's papers. Gleefully, he sank into the overstuffed chair and selected the first of the papers as he nibbled on toast. He set one aside after another, gratified that every paper was doing their duty to the Ministry by slapping that criminal's picture on every front page and splashing her name about in connection with every ill deed imaginable. He was bound and determined to destroy Jude Elliot for once and for all. There was no feeling in the world to match the joy of attaining a long sought-after goal.

He brought the cup of steaming coffee to his lips and raised the last paper in front of his face. _The Quibbler_ was a personal favorite—he loved the rune puzzles. But just as he was about to upend himself in the chair to decipher the puzzle upside down, he felt his hand shaking, the coffee splashing dangerously in the cup. He felt the color rising in his face as he stared and stared. He blinked, hoping to refocus on the page—perhaps it was a trick?

But it was no trick. He read the article voraciously, his expression progressing rapidly from shocked to horrified to abominably outraged.

"No!" he shouted as if he could stop this. His plan, his beautiful plan was unraveling fast. This dam had sprung a leak at every possible place and he would have to scramble it he was going to plug this mess up. He bellowed for his assistant.

The dour looking young man entered with a grim look on his face.


	57. All Or Nothing

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: All and Nothing

'You and I got something 

_But it's all and then it's nothing_

_To me._

_And I got my defenses_

_When it comes to your intentions_

_For me._

_And we wake up in the breakdown_

_Of the things we never thought we could be._

_I'm not the one who broke you,_

_I'm not the one you should fear._

_What do you got to move you darling?_

_I thought I lost you somewhere_

_But you were never really ever there_

_At all.'_

_'Here Is Gone,' The Goo Goo Dolls_

                She blinked. The dust scraped past her, whipped along by a concussively pounding wind. The sun hovered over the harsh line of the horizon, the glaring red light softened only by the thick veil of sand and dust kept in constant motion by the moody, shifting gales. The blinking wasn't helping so she threw her hand over her eyes. Rough rock buffed and scratched the skin on her bare feet raw. Peering through her fingers, she saw that this wind-scarred rock stretched on until it met the sky, forming the bleeding sunset. The dust and wind hurried across the desolation, creating the deafening whisper of a mob.

_                She blinked and looked around. Where was she? Stumbling forward, she heard a distinction in the landscape's roar. It sounded like the wind picked up just in front of her…but no. The gale was the same. There was something else. She clamored over the red rocks to see what it was. With her hand still stretched over her eyes to shield them, she strained to see through the riot storm of sand. And in little glimmers, it revealed itself. A river. _

_                Breathless, she glanced over it, her eyes grabbing up every detail greedily. The red sun set off small flecks of fire over the rushing surface. The battering wind seemed to leap from the very waters, jumping ashore and racing over the land, as if to devour the parched rock, in a mad rush to the fiery sun at her back. The water was a deep iron-colored gray and it was moving swiftly, so swiftly that she instinctively took a step and then another away from it. She shivered as the gales continued to spring from the sinister looking water and pound her face, her shoulders, her legs, before bullying past her. The sun was hot on her back, but this wind was…icy…glacial. _

_                The dust and sand from the red rocks danced in the air and caught the flaming light, giving the entire land a bloody hue. She could see nothing beyond the current, the bright peaks and deep troughs of the treacherous water, but then…_

_                No. She felt alone. It seemed she was alone. Tentatively, she put a toe closer to the water. Inch by inch, she dared to move into the dark water's reach, all the while she hadn't been able to take her eyes off of the very distant shore. Even in the wind's icy sting, she did not blink. The opposite bank was very strange. Indeed it seemed…green. And she thought she saw…_

_                But then she closed her eyes and shied away, turning her head. The gale angrily whipped her hair against her face, in a rage of dust and sand forcing her to look away. She had seen, however. And standing on the bare red rocks, she felt utterly abandoned, so cold and alone. It was a physical pain, this loneliness. When she dared to look back at the river, she felt the hot sting of tears on her cheeks vanishing quickly in the merciless gale. The forms were distinct on the other bank for only snatches of time, then swallowed from her sight by the sunlight's harsh, blinding glare and the stinging dust. _

_                And she'd done it before she realized that she'd decided to do it. It was a shock. Such cold she'd never felt before. It raced up her, from where her toe touched the dark and surging water, all the way to her head, to her fingertips, swallowing every bit of human warmth. At the moment she touched the water, the skies above her opened up and a peel of tyrannical thunder shook the very rock on which she stood. The deep gunmetal clouds swirled and the waters before her jumped and lashed at the shore. _

_                Determinedly, she fixed her eyes on the dark, cryptic figures flitting in and out of her sight so capriciously. Her jaw clenched mechanically in that way, that forced way of holding back frustration. She slipped another toe into the turbid waters. The crack of lightening, the sizzling brightness of it, took her so by surprise that she stumbled backward and let out a piercing cry._

                "No!" The Minister let out a piercing cry.

                His assistant took a wary step back and regarded him with a careful glare. "Minister Fudge," the lanky man said, doubt an electrifying current under his soothing voice, "I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation—"

                "Reasonable explanation?" Fudge bellowed, his slippers slapping the floor as he paced. "I've been slandered, I've been tricked, bamboozled!" He fell heavily into a waiting armchair, letting the offending paper drop dramatically to the rug.

                "Ah," the assistant piped up, "in print, I believe it is libel."

                Fudge went from a modest scarlet, to a scandalous shade more often attributed to beets. One heavy hand sent the silver tea tray sailing across the room where it connected squarely, and loudly, with the door. The assistant flinched. "I know what it is, Dawson, you great idiot." He jumped to his feet and directed the full force of his anger at the offending clerk. "I want that Skeeter in here in fifteen minutes or you can clear your desk out, am I quite clear?"

                The assistant, Dawson, stammered his answer. Fudge had assumed it meant yes, of course.

                "And," Fudge amended, glaring down at the paper squashed beneath his fuzzy slipper-shod foot, "I want the editor of this rag in here as well. A retraction, Dawson, and nothing less…or you're fired. Everyone will be fired."

                "Yes, Minister," Dawson mumbled as he backed out of the door. No sooner had he disappeared through the door did another cog in the Minister's wheel appear. A stout, matronly woman appeared without hesitation, a sour look on her face. The heat of the Minister's anger did little to melt her icy disposition.

                "Oh, Dolores," the Minister began, allowing himself to sink back into the squashy armchair, "I have had such a morning." He eyed his loyal PR secretary with a plea for pity. None was forthcoming.

                "Prepare yourself, Minister," was her answer. "I have nothing but bad news, I'm afraid." But she looked anything but afraid. She shuffled the notes in her hand. "The owls have not stopped arriving since the article ran this morning. The _Quibbler _is the number one selling paper in all of Britain. I'm afraid there is not a witch or wizard who has not read that article. It is as you have planned, I guess, sir." The sarcasm was thick.

                Fudge slammed his fists on the chair's sturdy arms. "No, it is not as I planned!" The bright color shot to his round face once more. "How could she? When I gave her every freedom…When I gave her my trust? How could Skeeter have betrayed me so?"

                "I do admit," Dolores allowed him, "that it is quite a turn from her usual penchant for shoddy journalism. The article was quite good."

                The Minister's glare burned with fury. "A pack of lies! At least it was printed in such an ill-reputed rag…there is still a chance that the good witches and wizards of Britain would not have believed…"

                He gave her a childishly hopeful glance. The sternness of her manner became even more steeled. Shuffling once again through her notes, she produced a piece of parchment and handed it over. "Your approval rating, sir," she said stonily. "It appears that ninety-eight percent, in fact, believed the article. A vast and wide majority, sir, would like to see you run out of office."

                A series of choking and rasping sounds, Fudge opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, was all the reaction that his overloaded mind could produce. It took considerable effort for the Minister to contain himself. "But two percent!" He said triumphantly. "Two percent want me to stay!"

                Dolores set her horn-rimmed glasses low on her nose and glared at the Minister. "Your mother, no doubt, and her Women's Auxiliary Quilting and Horticulture Club. Not quite the backing you need for this turn around, I'm afraid."

                Fudge undid the top button on his striped pajama shirt, searching desperately for more air. Dolores kept using that phrase, 'I'm afraid,' but she looked nothing of the sort. "And my wife," he corrected her, feeling the earth shift beneath him.

                "Actually," Dolores said with a barely concealed smile, "Madam Alethea Fudge has given a public statement this morning from Paris calling for a reconvening of the Wizengamut. With," she added slyly, "the full support of the French Ministère du Magie."

                "But," the Minister said loudly, now pale and sweating, "I have disbanded the Council."

                She shrugged her considerable pair of shoulders. "They are back." Regarding him for the briefest of moments, she was minutely sorry for him, but with great power, they say, comes equal responsibility. Time to face that odious music. "Best get dressed, Minister," Dolores directed as she headed for the door, "it's going to be a long day."

                Cornelius Fudge slumped back into the plush comfort of the expansive armchair miserably as the door closed. He looked around his lavish ministerial bedchamber, his ill-humor heightening with the realization that the tables had turned overnight, even as he slumbered away in peace. He was now the loser of the game he had invented. With weary resolution, his eyes came to a rest on the front page of the _Quibbler._ That insufferable girl stared back at him. Jude Elliot. Fudge gritted his teeth. "It is not over," he hissed at the black and white newsprint.

                "Well," Dr. Jones said with a small smile as he leaned back in the rickety wooden chair in the corner of the cell, "you did it." He tapped the front page of a paper that looked like it had been through hell and back to reach them there on the small outcrop in the middle of the swirling North Sea. "They are calling for Minister Fudge's resignation." He turned the paper around so that she could see for herself, but he knew it was useless. He'd been pretty much talking to himself like an idiot from the second he entered this fortress.

                Her back was to him, just as it had been since Skeeter left with her priceless story and her cheap perfume. Jude hadn't spoken a word since the interview. Not a conscious word, that is. She had often shouted violently as she tossed and turned in fitful sleep. She'd called a name, had begged someone not to leave her. It was post-traumatic stress working itself out, this he knew.

                She was not asleep now. No, he could feel that she was awake, staring blankly at the wall, at the untidy, somewhat disturbing scrawl left by countless other inmates. This she did for hours at a time. He glanced back at the article. It was a day old. There had been no new information, but he suspected that Fudge would resign soon and a new Minister would be appointed by the council—he hoped for her sake it would be soon. She would not last much longer in this place.

                And selfishly, he thought of Holly, his fiancé—he too would like to be rid of this place. To return to his old life.

                Yet this place had been locked up tighter than Gringots since yesterday morning. The press had been swarming. And still he had heard little.

                He folded the paper between his arms and let his eyes close heavily, his chin falling to his chest. "Don't worry," he said sleepily, mostly to himself, "we'll be out of here soon, you'll see."

                Michael had no idea how long he'd been asleep. But the sound of keys in the ancient lock roused him and he sat up straight, the paper falling with a soft fluttering sound to the dusty stone floor. Jude had turned away from the wall, but her red-ringed eyes were closed. She was asleep, the rough wool blankets tucked up under her chin.

                Slowly, Jones stood, stretching, disbelieving what he'd heard. The light from the window was low and bright. Sunset.

                Quickly, he spun on his heels at the sound of hinges. In the shadows beyond, Jones recognized the figure of the old guard, bent by age, and ill-humored by his post. But behind him, Jones saw two figures, and one alarmingly hulking shape in the background.

                "Hullo," he called, "who's there?"   

                "Pipe down, son," the old guard shoved the bars back and croaked, stepping into the half-light. "It's just me. No need for squawking."

                Jones squinted past the old man. "Headmaster Dumbledore?" he said, unsure. "Is that you?"

                Dumbledore smiled and took the doctor's hand. "So you see." The Headmaster was wrapped in a thick blue cloak and he looked older than Jones would believe. "I must thank you for your dedication to my young friend, Dr. Jones, is it now?" The old twinkle was back in his eye. "It has been a while since you were at Hogwarts, Michael." He released Jones' hand and moved into the cell.

                "Yes, it has been," Jones admitted, glancing warily in the direction of the others. He swallowed hard and stepped back without thinking when his eyes met the cold black stare of Severus Snape, someone he practiced avoiding quite a lot in school. The man seemed not to recognize him at all and remained silently in the background. Next to him, Michael was not mistaken, stood the enormous figure he now recognized as Rubeus Hagrid. He filled the entire corridor, a little awkward and none too pleased to be in this place. An undercurrent of fear came from the large man, Jones was sure of it. Still, he stood his ground, protective of his master, Albus Dumbledore.

                "So," Jones asked as the old man bent to get a closer look at the prisoner, "has Fudge resigned then?"

                "Yes, he has," Dumbledore said stoically. "The Council has removed him and has acted wisely in appointing Arthur Weasley as Minister."  
                "I've never heard of him," Jones said to himself.

                "I don't doubt that you haven't," Dumbledore said with a smile. "He is no politician and he has only accepted temporarily." He glanced over his shoulder at the doctor for a brief moment. "He is a trusted friend however, and a good man. And of course his first motion was to release myself and Miss Elliot." He returned his level gaze to Jude. "Did you hear that, my dear? You are free."

                Michael peered over Dumbledore's shoulder and noted that she was awake now, but she looked dazed. Her eyes were ringed in red and shadowed by dark bruises, and they were glassy, unfocused. She looked painfully thin. "Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. She needs to be in St. Mungo's where she can be taken care of. This place…" Michael said with a strong anger in his voice, "This shouldn't even exist. Not even for the basest of criminals. It's barbaric."

                The guard shuffled his feet. Dumbledore nodded. "That is sound advice, doctor."

                "No." Her voice was faint, but firm. "I don't want to go…not to St. Mungo's."

                Jones frowned. "You can't very well stay here."

                "I want," she insisted, "to go home."

                Dumbledore looked to Dr. Jones. The doctor raised his eyebrows, asserting his professional opinion, but deferring to the Headmaster.

                "To Hogwarts." She was determined. Dumbledore nodded, beckoning Hagrid in. He ducked through the small opening, a tight squeeze. Michael relinquished his place next to Dumbledore and moved over to the wall, feeling the sudden suffocating feeling of claustrophobia. "Hagrid, would you help Miss Elliot up?"

                "No," Jude said, more firmly this time. She pulled her bare feet from the wool blanket and set them wearily on the icy stone floor, sitting up. She felt the room spin nauseatingly and closed her eyes. "Fudge hasn't beat me," she said, gasping for breath with every word. "I'm walking out of here on my own." Her sharp eyes cut a path to Dumbledore. He nodded. She stood up on wobbly legs and immediately grabbed for Hagrid's arm to steady herself. "Perhaps," she conceded, "I could use a bit of a hand."

                Michael pulled the blanket from the cot and wrapped it around Jude's shoulders. "Take this," he said kindly, "you'll need it."

                She turned to him, as if she forgot that he'd been there all along. "Thank you," she offered simply, "for everything."

                He nodded and smiled. Soon he was left standing alone in the cold empty cell, his freedom and an old newspaper his sole possessions now. He wondered if he would be offered his old job back. Shrugging, he bent to pick up the paper, but he hesitated.

                Gathering his cloak tightly around him, he swept out of the dank cell. The chilly air ruffled the pages of the paper left lying on the ground.

                Outside the cold sea air and the flaming orange sunset invaded her senses, ravaged the already frayed ends of her strung out nerves. She closed her eyes against the harsh glow, burying her face in the warm darkness of the blanket she clutched in her freezing but sweaty hand. In a swirl of bright blue, Dumbledore had stepped in front, followed closely by the black figure of Snape. She peeked out of her veil, into the blinding sunset. The cavernous and lonely darkness they'd left behind was deserted, but outside, on the rocky shore of the tiny island, a hungry gathering of the press swarmed, waiting for anything that would make the front page.

                Jude felt Hagrid's large hand tighten protectively on her shoulder, steadying her. "Go on with ye now!" she heard him shout to the pack of journalists and freelancers. "Nothin' here to see…you lot otta be ashamed o'yerselves."

                There was a moment where she couldn't think, couldn't react. Blinking dumbly in the bright flashes of camera bulbs, her hearing fuzzy from the shouts and the ocean's din, she felt the earth pitch and tip around her. But then she saw that someone had merely pushed passed her. Dr. Jones moved in front of her, coming to Dumbledore's assistance. She couldn't understand what was being said, but she saw him raise his arms in a placating gesture at the crowd. The wind was picking up.

                Jude turned her head, craning her neck painfully to look up at the castle that loomed like a great black monster over them. Its outline was sharp, skeletal against an increasingly indigo sky in the east. She shivered.

                Hagrid looked from her pale face to the hulking stone fortress above them. "I reckon you're just as eager as I am to leave this place," he said quietly to her.

                She smiled faintly, bitterly, her eyes still pasted upward, watching the clouds scuttle low, brushing the tops of the towers. "No," she answered to herself, "I don't think I ever shall leave this place." She swallowed hard against the cold, dull aching in her chest. A queasy waltz of vertigo, her knees buckling under her from exhaustion had her laid out flat on the ground before her eyes closed. Flash bulbs popped and sputtered away.

                He ordered another Jameson, a double. Rubbing the two-day-old graying stubble, he reached into his pocket and tossed the barkeeper a coin after he'd received that cold look that was universally acknowledged to mean "money first." The barkeep looked warily at the coin, flipped it over in his beefy palm.

                "Eh, what's this malarkey?" the large man said with a mammoth, probably iron, fist on the countertop.

                "Gold," came the whiskey soaked reply.

                The barkeep fingered the coin with scrutiny, examining the strange markings, then, in the ultimate test, clenched it between his teeth. He frowned again, shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the neck of the bottle in question. He thumped it on the bar before the man, liquor splashing on the scrubbed wood.

                Fudge returned his red, raw eyes to the paper in front of him. It was the ultimate in betrayal. He felt his temperature rising. A martyr now, a saint, a hero. He focused on the girl's face. The girl who had ruined him. He would know her as nothing more than enemy now.

                Jude opened her eyes to a bright white nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut immediately. The light pounded her head like a dozen hammers. It felt like the worst hangover she'd ever had…tripled.

                Still, she steeled up her strength, pushed herself up on her elbows. Slowly she opened her eyes. She was accosted by the even brighter smile of Madam Pomfrey. Jude let herself fall back on the pillows. She felt the warmth and safety that was Hogwarts. And for the first time, the absence of fear and of cold let her feel…sad. Deeply sad and empty…hollow.

                She must have been frowning because Madam Pomfrey bustled over quickly and put a motherly arm around her, cooing soothing words in her ear. Jude listened to none of it. Waving the nurse's kind attentions away, Jude promised that she was fine, that she was just tired. But there was no fooling the old woman. A silent understanding passed between them and Poppy was not one to push or pry. She just left it at that.

                "Promise me," Poppy said as she stepped away from the bed, "that you will rest." Her eyes had a kind sternness to them. "Every time you end up in here, you're off in a flash and hurting yourself all over again."

                Jude shook her head, bending her stiff wrist. It didn't feel weak or tingly anymore, but she still felt drained. She knew what the nurse wanted to hear, but she couldn't promise it. "I can't stay here," she said apologetically. "I can't stay still for too long." She looked up into the woman's face. She seemed wounded by the words but not surprised. "But I'll stick close," she compromised. "For now at least." Jude tried on a faint smile. "How's that, Madam Pomfrey?"

                She narrowed her eyes grudgingly at Jude. "The best I can hope for, I guess." She set a bowl of soup in front of her. "But while you are here, young lady, you are to do what you are told," she said with a significant glance at the steaming bowl. To Madam Pomfrey, Jude would always be twelve.

                Jude wrinkled her nose. She shifted against the pillows and felt the pull of the old wounds across her back. As quick as a blink she was back there, in that time, the sting of the lashes fresh in her mind. Madam Pomfrey laid a hand on her leg, covered neatly in the white hospital sheets.

                "Are you all right, dear?"

                Jude shook herself free of the memories and managed to look the woman in the eyes. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey," she said, forced calm edging her tone.

                Madam Pomfrey regarded her for a moment until she was satisfied then headed for her office. "The Headmaster and Professor Snape should be in soon," she called from the doorway. "They have a few questions they hoped you could clarify."

                Jude tensed. "An interrogation," she grumbled. Her eyes flashed anger.

                "Interrogation?" Pomfrey said, frowning as she peeked her head out of the door. "Why whatever put that notion into your head, child?" She bustled back into the ward with several strange bottles. "We are your friends, Jude Elliot. And there is no need to be so dramatic."

                She mumbled a half-hearted apology, letting the spoon fall back into the untouched soup. Madam Pomfrey continued to chitter away while she worked, but Jude had stopped listening. It had begun to consume her waking thoughts now, as well as her dreams. The wide red shore, the turbulent and impassable river, the far grassy place that was just beyond…

                She knew it was fantasy, just a construct of her mind, some way to work through the mess in her head. But it had that real, unmistakable tangibility that the other dreams had had. And she thought, what if…what if he was just waiting beyond her reach. Waiting for her to find him?

                Staring blankly off into space, Jude did not hear the door open.

                "Hullo."

                The quiet voice pulled her attention back to the present. Her emotions were swallowed in cold astonishment, allowing her no expression of anything she felt at seeing him. She didn't know what to say to him; she hadn't really prepared to see him, hadn't thought of how she would let him know…

                Her face wore a thin, weary frown, her stormy eyes had none of the luster he remembered so well. Still, at the sight of her, Bill wanted nothing more than to be close to her, to kneel at her feet and ask her to forgive him. He was such a fool. But every sign, every signal told him that he was the last person she wanted to see walk through that door.

                And the hurt choked him. His smile fell and his hands became damp on the doorknob.

                "Hullo," she answered back in little more than a whisper. An awkward silence swallowed the rest of the moment. Her thin, pale fingers toyed with the crisp clean sheets and her eyes turned away from his, focusing on her hands.

                "Are you…" he began, but stopped. He ran a finger down the door, a fleeting look of consternation crossing his face as he glanced at his feet, attempting to reign in his thoughts. "You look better," he said, allowing his eyes to trail upward to her face. "What I mean is…how are you?" He focused such a look of concern and guilt on her, that she felt it keenly, even as she studied her fingers.

                She frowned deeper, thinking hard on it. How was she? That is what he had to say? What was it that he wanted to hear?

                There was such a pause, a tension. He gripped the door handle.

                "Fine," she answered too firmly. "I'm fine." She let her gaze wander toward him before she glanced away again. "How are your brothers, and your sister?"

                "Fine," he echoed her. He still hung closely about the doorway. "They're all fine."

                "Do be sure to thank your father for me. Will you?" She felt the distracting tightness in her chest. Hardly could she breathe.

                Bill smiled a small smile, self-conscious. "You don't need to thank him, Jude. He only took the position because it was the only way to help you." His thumb played nervously along the smooth, age-worn wood. "Besides, he never would have been offered the job had it not been for your article." He grinned disarmingly. She held her breath, scrutinizing everything about him. "Mum's furious," he added for a laugh.

                Jude burrowed more defensively into the soft pillows. She could imagine Mrs. Weasley's anger. What danger she had placed them all in! The thought choked her.

                Bill's smile faded swiftly like the last rays of a bright sun on a winter's afternoon. She had changed so much. So pale and thin now, she was so filled with something…an angry, suspicious tension. It seemed to have taken over her, reanimated her features with something else. He struggled to recognize anything of the person he'd grown to love many months ago in the Egyptian desert.

                "Jude," he said softly, stepping hesitantly closer, "I'm sorry."

Toeing the clean stone floor, he did not feel that he could meet her eyes. It felt like he was crossing some barrier to a forbidden place. Yet he forced himself to boldly look at her. "I'm sorry about your brother…"

                "No!" she said violently. She jerked her head away, an invisible wall of coldness blocking any semblance of feeling her heart had fostered at the sight of him. "I don't want to hear it. Any of it."

                "But Jude," he began, his hands held out at his sides in a pleading gesture.

                 As if on cue, the distractions descended on them all at once: a dingy yellow tennis ball rolled through the door followed by the fast scrabbling of claws on the immaculate stone floor of the hospital wing; a cry from Madam Pomfrey as she entered the room to the sight of a dog defiling her shrine of healing; the familiar cold drawl of Draco Malfoy oddly animated with something akin to amusement as he trailed the dog into the room; and the quiet but commanding presence of Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape at his elbow, scowling even more than usual.

                Madam Pomfrey gasped, a hand to her chest, completely lost for words. It was Dumbledore who broke up the chaotic scene. Gently, the Headmaster sent the boy and the dog on their way, reminding Malfoy not to go out of the castle. Dumbledore turned a politely deaf ear as Malfoy passed Bill with barely muffled mumbles. With a small smile, Bill let the kid by without much more notice.

                "I beg your pardon for intruding," Dumbledore said, bending his head slightly toward Bill, "but we could come back if…"

                Bill shook his head, glancing momentarily at Jude. She was avoiding his eyes. "I don't think that's necessary, Headmaster," Bill conceded, backing toward the door. "I believe Miss Elliot and I are through." He hesitated, not really knowing what he waited for, what he waited for her to say or do. In another instant he was gone.

                Pomfrey still stood with her hand to her chest, regaining her composure as the ward regained its order. She turned toward Dumbledore, the color slowly receding from her cheeks. "Well, Headmaster, if you need me, I will be in my office." She turned on her heel and retreated to the sound of stiff, rustling skirts. Jude watched with regret as the woman disappeared behind the heavy door. Reluctantly, she turned weary eyes in the direction of the Headmaster and the man who stood behind him, dark and silent as a shadow.

                Jude eyed them both with silent suspicion.

                Dumbledore of course sensed her mood. He sat and held her glare evenly. "I am glad to see you looking stronger, my dear," he said kindly. "You gave me quite a scare at Azkaban. And that," he said simply and firmly, "is what I intend to get to the bottom of."

                Jude frowned, feeling more puzzled than she could remember ever having felt before.

                "My dear," the Headmaster attempted to clarify soothingly, "do you remember anything at all about last night? Anything…strange perhaps that happened between the moment you left Azkaban and when you woke up here?" His eyes were positively piercing. And she could hardly bear the scrutiny.

                She looked away. "I remember," she started in a small voice, "reporters, quite a bit of confusion. And…I remember Hagrid. And then," she said, staring at a mid point between here and the moment in her mind. "And then blackness…nothing."

                Dumbledore regarded her for the longest moment. Jude felt as if her skin was transparent and the old man could look right through her to the core. "Any dreams?" he asked perceptively.

                Despite the pain, Jude settled back into the pillows, wishing she could just disappear into them. He was searching her for any sign, looking for the deception that she knew he must see there. A deep undercurrent of resentment stole from her any sense of duty. Her resolve became iron. "No," she said affectedly, hoping he would not see through it. "Nothing." Her eyes were cold, her face devoid of any warmth. Her dreams belonged to no one else, she thought with a jealous rage.

                Dumbledore watched her keenly for a few moments. He knew she hid something, but he could not fathom what it was. He tried a different tack. "Do you recall saying anything just before you lost consciousness last night?" He raised one white eyebrow questioningly.

                She frowned, truly puzzled. "Saying something? Headmaster, what is this all about?" she shouted angrily. "Just tell me what I'm supposed to confess to!"

                It was Dumbledore's turn to frown. "We are not accusing you of anything, my dear." He gave her another penetrating glance. She was on edge. "I merely wanted to know if you had a vision to accompany your prophecy?"

                Confusion conquered all other feeling. "Prophecy? What are you talking about?"

                "That is exactly what we wanted to know," Dumbledore said calmly. "When you left the castle Azkaban last evening, you passed out, but before falling completely unconscious, you uttered a few very, shall we say strange words."

'"_The last heir of your line will fall by the sword of your foe, vanquished by a child born at the end of Julius' reign but before Augustus ascends the throne.' _Do you recognize these words, Jude," Snape spoke abruptly, almost accusatorially. She hesitated, flashing him a look filled with scorn. "Well?" he demanded.

She swallowed a barbed lump of fear and anger. Finally she shook her head. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

'"_Yet hope remains in the blood of a betrayer, and Judas may resurrect his lord.' _These words are completely alien to you?" He shot her a warning look.

"Yes!" she cried angrily, terror gripping her chest brutally tight.

"And yet they came from your own lips not twenty-four hours ago," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. With his back to Snape, he did not see his suspicious and supremely accusing look. He did notice however, that Jude no longer dared to meet his eyes. "I wonder," he continued quietly to himself.

Jude was breathing heavily, her hands knotted into fists in the sheets. She felt the cold trickle of sweat down her back and at the collar of her shirt, on her upper lip and prickling her forehead. She felt dizzy with confusion and fatigue. She felt the Headmaster's eyes like two brands searing into her flesh. "Headmaster," she said weakly, meeting his eyes with a pleading look, "I have no idea what you expect me to say." She swallowed hard at the deception that forced its way to her lips. "But I don't recall saying anything nor thinking anything at that time." With a sharp look at Professor Snape, she added harshly, "Nor do I recall the words you tell me I have said." She slumped into the pillows with a dreaded relief. "But I am tired. Please…" her eyes pleaded pathetically. The Headmaster had no recourse but to leave her for now. She was relieved to have time to think.

As Dumbledore left her with a kind word, he left the ward quietly. Professor Snape stalked out before him.

Feeling the knots in her back ease a little, she let the tension unwind like tangled cords. She remembered it clearly, but she didn't remember him in the tableau that came to her mind's eye. But Snape had been a spy. It was clear he had found out somehow. She forced herself to breath steadily, knowing that she had gotten herself into the thick of it now. To lie to Dumbledore. She had no idea what had compelled her to do it.

_The last heir of your line will fall by the sword of your foe, vanquished by a child born at the end of Julius' reign but before Augustus ascends the throne._ The words felt awkward and foreign on her tongue, but she was surprised that she recalled them so readily. _But hope remains in the blood of a betrayer, and Judas may resurrect his lord._ It was an accident, she comforted herself—she had thought it was just a riddle, a puzzle. And she loved riddles. Through dry lips, she felt herself recite the rest of the missive, confused. These words she had not heard in nearly twenty years. _A blade stronger than your enemies, silver and adamantine, allied and tempered with the tears of the unicorn, will bring you all you desire._

Lord Voldemort and His trusted had poured over the words, plying and testing them for the clues that they needed. It was by utter chance that she had overheard them. And like a child, she often spoke before she stopped to think. Proudly, she surmised that Julius and Augustus represented months. A riddle. Voldemort had been well amused by this as His experts poured over histories, calculating dates of reigns, puzzling over how the early Roman timeline fit the sixth century prophecy. It was only one of the many reasons she had become so hated within her Master's circle.

The scene swam before her mind's eye, sleep distorting the images. The dream always came on the edges of sleep, hiding just beyond the veil of he subconscious. And she didn't fight it. Prophecies and Dark Lords could wait for the waking hours. She longed for the dream, she had determined, that had become the only remaining thread to him.

The light in the library was dim. She squinted at the book, feeling the dull thudding that heralded the beginning of a headache. She bit her lip impatiently and flipped the page of the dusty volume spread in front of her. It beat lying in a bed for the whole of the day, pretending to be asleep whenever anyone came into the room. She felt a sick churning in her stomach as she thought of the inevitable fall out of the day before.

She forced concentration. The book she held in front of her gave her confidence, grounded her hopes to the confines of the physical world around her. She knew what she had seen in that dream. She knew who stood on the opposite shore. Breathing deeply, she sifted through more irrelevant information in the text concerning dreams. The nervous tension would not go away. It tingled in the back of her mind, the niggling thought that what she was researching, that what she hadn't realized she was planning was, in fact, highly illegal.

Her eyes raked the tome voraciously. The book was dog-eared in places where she had found something valuable. She began to bend down the corner of this page when the change in light caught her attention.

                Looking up, her expression turned to acid. Professor Snape stood close, menacing. She sat back in the wooden chair, a wall of cold detachment separating her from everything else. She waited behind her walls for the storm.

                She expected him to yell, to rage, but he surprised her. Quietly, steadily, he asked "Why?"

                Belligerently, she affected an infuriating ignorance. "Why what?"

                "Don't play games," he warned. "Why didn't you tell the truth?"

                Tension played at her jaw as she gritted her teeth in rage. "I've just had enough of the truth, that's all."

                Momentarily he closed his eyes, trying to get the better of his temper. "Is this about Rita Skeeter and that article?"

                "You bet it is!" Jude bellowed. It was fortunate that the library had been deserted.

                Snape breathed an irritated sigh. "It was for your own good," he said, his tone bored. "It was the only way…"  
                "You sold me out!" Jude stood abruptly, her chair crashed to the floor. "I would never have done that to you." She slammed the book closed on the desk, making a loud crack that reverberated in the empty space. She shoved away from the wooden table and drew herself up to her full height, an unimpressive feat at that. She left the book there and shoved passed him. "Perhaps I should. Maybe you'd like to see your face on every paper, every horrible thing you've ever done outlined in ten point New Times Roman." She stalked out of the library.

"Shall we discuss this later, then?" Snape called after her sarcastically, following her with his eyes until she was gone. He shook his head when she was out of sight and rested a hand on the book she had abandoned. He turned to leave, but for a fleeting moment of strange curiosity, he turned the book over on its side, glancing at the spine. He frowned. _Dreams and Predicting the Future._ He wrinkled his nose in distaste and let the book fall back on its side and left the library to the silence of disuse.

                Jude drank in the silence the cold night afforded, the wind whipping around her as she stood on the narrow stone railing of the balcony. The North Tower allowed a magnificent sight, even for the middle of the night. The stars overhead winked from the indigo sheet of night, the tiny lights of Hogsmeade twinkling back in reply. There was no moon, but still, the snow covering the ground would not be denied its glimmer.

                She breathed in the biting frost, relishing the clean stinging feeling in her lungs. Her bare feet felt the cold of the stone acutely, but she did not shiver. It was intoxicating, standing at the edge, a toe hanging over and then a foot, the ground hundreds of feet below. Dizzying, like a drug. Was this the way He felt when He was offered all of the kingdoms of the world if He would just cast Himself down and trust to the angels? Certainly it was the way Lucifer felt when he decided to take the plunge from the soft security of heaven.

                And if she fell?

                A sweet smirk came to her face unbidden. Her whole life it had been expected, but this was the first time she had ever, _ever_ considered. What would she lose? With bitterness, she tried to think of one thing she hadn't already lost.

                And what would she gain?

                She bit her lip and looked down, feeling the wonderful Siberian wind push against her back like an encouraging hand. That moment, when you know that there is no turning back, that is what it was about. That one exquisite moment before reality hit you at 9.8 feet per second squared. She took a slow step along the railing and flung her arms wide, closing her eyes and feeling the wind rush by her on its way to some paradise. Anywhere but here.

                With her eyes shut tight, she smiled. She would do it if it meant she could have him back.

                "Don't move!" she heard shouted from somewhere behind her so abruptly that she screamed, weaving as she lost her balance on the rail. Instinctively she squatted on the stone just in time to regain her footing, her hands gripping the railing with intense fear, an intrinsically feline movement.

                "Jesus Bloody Christ!" Jude yelled, turning a face full of fury on the intruder. Bill's face was screwed up in horror but it was fading to relief and embarrassment as she rounded on him. "You could have killed someone."

                "Yeah," he said, breathing heavily, "You could have, too!"

                Jude hung her head and relaxed her shoulders, but she remained perched on the ledge. "Can I help you?" she asked impatiently, turning away from him. "Or are you simply lost?"

                "I, uh…" Bill stammered, caught off guard. "I just came to…" He put his hand in his pocket and struggled to get a grip. "Jude, I came to say goodbye."

                He was rewarded at least with a confused look. He had to admit that he'd expected a little more.

                Jude frowned. "Where are you going?"

                He seemed taken aback. "Back to Egypt," he answered as if this was common sense. And it was.

Jude felt like smacking her forehead but refrained. She sighed. People did have lives other than this tangled and skewed one she led. She felt slightly guilty for getting him caught up in it.

"I don't think I'm helping anything here." He pulled his hand from his pocket. With a small smile, he regarded an object in his hand for a moment. Then, with a metallic sound, he flicked something the size of a coin in her direction.

                She caught it easily and her frown of confusion deepened into unhappiness when she opened her hand. It was the ring he had given her, the one she had so ungraciously given back to him. "I can't keep this," she said matter-of-factly. "I gave it back to you." She extended her hand with the ring enclosed.

                He shook his head. "It's yours. Keep it." He turned to leave, his heart sinking with the silence that followed him. At the door he hesitated then turned. "Think of me, Jude. And have a good life. You deserve it if anyone does."

                She looked at the ring, feeling the familiar sting and heat in her eyes. A million words flooded to her lips but none of them found breath. When she looked up, he was gone.

                Slumping down on the stone, she stared at the spot where he had stood only moments before. The ring in her hand was heavy, with gold as well as memories. She clenched her fingers tightly around the ring, anger welling up, catching in her throat along with all of the things she didn't say. She pulled back her hand to cast the ring into the darkness, but something stopped her. Instead, she let her hand fall to her lap, the ring thumping heavily against the flesh of her palm.

                She looked out into the black void. Her thoughts followed Bill, but only so far. Her heart, she had convinced herself, only had room for the task of revenge, and love was an excess, one that had gotten her into too many tight spots as it was.


	58. The Deal

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Deal

_'Welcome to the fall out._

_Welcome to resistance._

_The tension is here, _

_Between who you are and who you could be,_

_Between how it is and how it should be._

_I dare you to move.'_

'Dare You to Move,' Switchfoot 

The silence of the star-studded and snow blanketed ground—all was just so infuriatingly calm. Jude shoved her way through the door to the crystal quiet of the night, making as much noise as possible. She stepped into the crisp, wintry night, quite unsteady on shaking legs. Several owls screeched their displeasure and leapt into the air in search of a more serene perch. The sound of glass crunching on the snow and stone at her feet teased her half-blurred and distracted attention slowly in that direction. She summoned enough presence of mind to focus on the bottle, broken. Shrugging her shoulders, feeling the ache and pinch of old wounds, she turned away from the tiny wreckage, consoling herself with the two bottles tucked in her arm, pressed against her like a security blanket. The door was left open and the dim light of candles peeped cautiously into the night.

Nestling in the snow on the steps, Jude concentrated on plucking the cork out of the long neck of the second bottle, feeling the delicious high of breaking the rules. It had been so many years since she had done this. Succeeding in extracting the old cork, she let the pleasant contraband slip down her throat. Eyes closed against the sting of the wind on her face, she relished the artificial warmth spreading through her body, eating away, if only temporarily, at the ice inside her.

Of course the effect was already dulled by one bottle already pounding away in her head. She wanted to laugh at how utterly juvenile she felt in this moment, she wanted to laugh. It was completely beyond her, though, to feel it. But what she could feel was loneliness, if only in a dull, detached sort of way. An observation only.

It would have been hard for her to admit that she missed Bill even in a lucid, reasonable state of mind. Disregarding the bottle she'd already killed, she still couldn't say that she'd been in a reasonable state of mind for quite some time. For the past six months at least, Jude had felt such acute vulnerability, that everyone had either turned on her or died. And it hadn't helped much that it seemed like every time she took a step, the earth crumbled from beneath her feet. She remembered feeling this way as she shivered alone in the dark of many a London alley as a child. And she resented her paranoia.

But she was tough, she reminded herself.

Still she hadn't expected him to leave. Last night had been a surprise, his walking away from her forever. But with how preoccupied she'd been, anything would have surprised her. She was the only one left in her camp. And the loneliness stung her worse than the New Year's bitter chill.

She set the bottle next to her, the ruby liquid sloshing against the sides about midway down, beside the other. Hugging her knees to her chest, she shivered and took a deep breath. Perhaps the wine was a bad idea, the false warmth melting her defenses against such a torrent of feelings, both unhelpful and unnecessary. With that sobering thought, she let a thin sheet of apathy cover her, realizing that it had become so easy already to just turn off her emotions. With a calm detachment, a surgeon's disassociation, she assured herself that this was necessary. It was necessary if she didn't want another repeat of Azkaban. And it was absolutely necessary for the bargain she had almost convinced herself to strike.

The distaste was bitter, but she was prepared to swallow it. If that were all—if it was information they wanted, cooperation they would have from her…but for a price. Honor was too expensive, especially for something so tarnished in her eyes. It was not something she valued anymore.

She wasn't even sure that she had valued it. What she would pay any price for, however, was revenge. Jude would have just that and no mistake.

A drink to that—and this time the liquid hitting the back of her throat was cold, as cold as she had become.

The soft scuffle behind her made her turn, but the reaction was delayed, sluggish. She was mildly surprised to be staring into the face of a black and tan hound that was obviously happy to see her. It whined as it licked her face. She pushed Darcy away with one hand and wiped her face with her sleeve, her other hand firmly strangling the bottle. Unconsciously, unknowingly, her mind documented this first time that she had received the dog's affection with anything but warmth.

"There you are," came a call from just beyond the door, the voice tapering off when the boy locked eyes with her. The dog bounded over to him, coaxing him out into the snow for a bit of fun. Draco blinked blankly, a cool and indifferent farce. He had been artfully dodging her since she returned to the school.

Jude stared back with equal brevity. A twinge of jealousy quickly passed. Since when had he become so pally with her dog?

The squeak of the hinges as he rested his hand uneasily on the doorknob and the quick whistle announced his retreat. Darcy seemed torn. Jude almost smiled. She turned slightly and beckoned with one hand for him to come over.

"Malfoy," she called to him when it was obvious that he was hesitating. She patted the snow-covered ground beside her. "Come, sit." She gave him a dubious look that he mirrored exquisitely. "I won't bite," she snickered. "I promise."

Slowly, he ambled over to her, hands in his trouser pockets, a mistrusting look on his face. He eyed the step with displeasure and made an effort to dust most of the snow off before he sat. Darcy cantered around in the snow, making a show of enjoying herself thoroughly.

Draco sat for a moment in silence, feeling the weight of the dead air oppressively. With dread, he felt the oncoming conversation about "the direction of his life," and "the importance of his choices," like the rattle and rush of an oncoming train. Still, it didn't follow that this had to be agony. From the looks of it, Jude was on her way to becoming fairly pissed. What the heck, he decided. He'd earned a bit of fun, hadn't he?

Thinking of nothing cleverer to start with, he broke the silence with "Cold, this, isn't it?"

Jude seemed minutely stunned at the sound of his voice and nearly jumped when he repeated himself more loudly. "Er," she stammered, reaching for something to say. "Not bad, really."

He frowned. Draco tugged his thick cloak tighter around his shoulders, raising an eyebrow as he noted that Jude wasn't shivering much under the robe she wore. She was a wreck, pale and tired, fairly dead-looking. It was not something he readily understood, people caring little about how they looked. And he reasoned that she must be half-dead not to feel the mid-winter chill reach all the way through her. He shook his head and burrowed into his cloak further and watched Darcy play in the snow.

Jude was hardly thinking about the kid at her side and she definitely wasn't thinking about the weather. What she was thinking about would have startled the old Jude, shamed her for even considering it. She swore she would never kill again after she watched James crumple to the floor, dead in such a short flash. And now she was wondering how it would be to feel Peter Petegrew's pulse weaken and cease against her palm, her thin and pale fingers ending his life with as little passion as he had killed her brother. It was_ all_ she thought about.

With a visible effort, she shook her mind free for the moment. "Are you looking forward to classes next week?" It was a hazy question, accompanied by a small, wine-soaked smile.

Draco crumpled his aquiline features. "You _are _drunk, aren't you!" He shook his head at her. "Of course not. I rather prefer this dump sans cretins."

Jude nodded thoughtfully. "Me too," she mused absently. And quite suddenly, she frowned deeply, glancing around as if she had just realized that she sat in the snow, without even a coat. "I hate this place," she slurred. "And I'm pretty sure it hates me."

Draco hid a snicker. "Well," he began, mock-sagely. "It was bound to happen, Jude. The effect of staying in one place too long." But even as he hid a small fit of giggles, he felt the minuscule twinge of a truth. He looked around the balcony as well, as if he too had suddenly found himself lounging in January snow. Thankfully, he thought, he had a coat. The corners of his smile receded a little. "What do you suggest then?" Draco gave her a measuring glance. "Should we run away?"

She smiled at what she thought was pretended seriousness, she could not tell with him. "To what effect?" she sighed. "What would I do without these walls?"

It was a question that did not require an answer. He tried to think of something clever, witty to make her laugh. She looked as if she could use one badly.

"You could turn to piracy."

"Or mercenary."

He frowned, his whole face involved in this show. "Are you mad?"

"Joking," she confessed. Her smile drooped and faded, though and she fell silent. Pensive.

It irked him too much to let the silence pass, so he bent his considerable powers of speech on something that would tease her back from the brink of her foul mood that she seemed forever to teeter upon ever since…

"Have you ever wanted something so much that you would give up everything that you have just for a chance at it?"

The question came so suddenly, she wasn't even sure that it had come from her lips. But she knew by the puzzled look on his face that she had voiced it.

He was frowning and examining her harshly. A look of utter horror crossed his face as he spat, "You aren't whining about your knight in secondhand armor leaving you, are you?" It was spoken with such supreme distaste that she almost laughed.

"No," she confessed, mildly amused, "I'm not upset about Bill leaving." She took a long pull from the bottle and absently watched the dog. A small frosty puff escaped her with a sigh. "No." She shook her head as if to convince herself physically. "He was just a friend." She examined her fist clenched around the neck of the bottle, her fingers reflexively tightening. "My only friend, it seems." She said this last part to herself.

Draco rolled his eyes mockingly and grabbed the full bottle from her side. He was working the cork out of the neck when she snatched it away. "Hey," she said slowly, "how old are you anyway?"

He gave her an imperious glare. "Sixteen," he crowed defiantly, snatching it back. "Besides, you're not my mum." With a pop the cork came out in his hand with the smell of wax and wine. "You're not even my teacher anymore."

Jude gave him a sideways glance and pulled the bottle from his frozen grasp, shoving the half-empty bottle at him. He frowned but did not complain. "You're right. I'm not your teacher anymore. Not a teacher," she mused absentmindedly, "and definitely not a student. So?" She took another drink and closed her red eyes. She hadn't slept in days.

"So, what?" he bit.

"So what am I still doing here?" she asked sadly.

"Well," he began helpfully, "you are drinking…quite a bit actually," amending as he went on. "And you are sitting in the snow, freezing your bloody nubs off, having a pleasantly asinine conversation with yours truly."

She nodded, her expression serious. A long, steadying breath helped quite a bit. "No, I mean, why do I keep coming back here. Like a dog, whenever they call, I come running, don't I?" She ran a hand through her hair, still very short and unruly.

"Why _don't_ you just leave, then?" he asked quite simply.

Slowly she shook her head. "It's really not that easy." A long, thought-filled silence crept between them. Suddenly Jude turned to him and smirked. "You didn't answer my first question. What would you do just about anything for?" Her plan of escape was not up for discussion.

He thought for a moment. "I want to beat Potter so badly bloody at Quidditch that he wouldn't know his broomstick from his…Hey! Are you listening to me?"

Jude bit her lip and nodded, but it was clear that she hadn't been. "Draco?" she asked quietly, absently. It spooked him to see her acting so strangely. This was exactly why he had avoided her.

"What?" He turned to look at her. She seemed far away.

"Where is your father?"

It felt as if she had punched him in the stomach. He reacted with such swift coldness that it startled her back to the present. "Why do you want to know?" It was so supremely defensive that she felt a little guilty for it.

She held up a hand peaceably. "Trust me," she said genuinely, "I could care less what your dear old dad is up to."

Suspicion showed in his cold, guarded features. "What makes you think I know?" It was an unnecessary question, so he changed tacks. "What do you want to know that for?"

"I am looking for…someone connected, let's say, with your father," she gave him an appraising glance. "That's all," she reassured him.

He didn't need three guesses regarding who she was looking for. He saw Professor Lupin die, same as the dozens of other students there. And, unlike the other students, he knew just what the tatty professor was to this sob story of an orphan.

"Look," he said diplomatically, no longer pretending. It had moved beyond the realm of amusement. "I don't think that's a good idea."

She rolled her neck to release some tension. Her voice was deadly flat. "What's not a good idea? I just want to talk to him."

Draco sniffed, disbelieving. "No you don't." He smirked as he recognized the frigid, steely resolve of murder on her face. "You know Dumbledore will never let you get that close again anyway, so just forget about it, okay?"

He looked intently into her face, but nothing moved. It chilled him, he had to admit. And he had encountered some pretty chilling things in his short life.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," she said with resolve.

Draco simply shook his head and took another drink. What did he care? He reminded himself again and again. He tried to swallow the bitter resentment he was feeling.

He took another drink then set the bottle down. "Well," he announced blandly, "I think I'll turn in now. It is just not the weather for getting pissed and breaking school rules and talking over who we are going to kill and who we aren't going to kill." He stood up, the snow crunching under his shoes.

A quick whistle brought Darcy away from the corner she was examining.

"As always, Elliot," he said as he brushed snow from the dog's coat, "you're a barrel of laughs."

He turned to retreat into the warmth of the castle but he stopped dead in his tracks, his expression frozen with surprise.

"Good evening," he said stiffly, regaining his composure. "Professor," he amended at a stern look from Professor Snape. "I was just taking the dog out for a little walk."

Calmly, his black eyes took in the boy, the dog and Jude. "Odd place for that, isn't it, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco did not finch under the withering stare. "Well, actually…" he began, but a warning look from Snape advised that silence was the best route.

Snape folded his arms imperiously and glared at the back of her head as if he would bore a hole through it. He did not see her hand tighten in anger on the neck of the bottle. "Strange," he began tauntingly, "that you are so talkative now when you have been so…shall we say economical in your speech as of late."

She clenched her teeth. "Impeccable timing you have not," she tutted tauntingly as she rose to stand on shaky legs, bottle still clasped in her white-knuckled grip. "You missed all the good bits." Her tone was flippant, amused. "Don't worry, though. Your spy will fill you in, I'm sure."

"Spy," Draco scoffed. "Wait a minute." He received another harsh glare.

"If I thought it would work I would have done it."

He was angry now and Jude was glad, enjoying it quite a bit.

"Nothing's too low for you, is it?" she asked scathingly. "You'd use him just as soon as you would use me."

"Hold on!" Draco seethed. "Draco Malfoy doesn't get _used_."

"Shut up!" yelled Jude and Snape in a discordant unison. He grudgingly obeyed, a petulant frown showing his disapproval alone.

"Could it really be possible that you don't grasp the importance of this?" Snape countered, exasperated.

"Of course I don't!" Jude bellowed in return. "Voldemort is gone! Why do you and Dumbledore insist on stirring this all up again? Do you want to end up dead?" She was wide-eyed and ranting now. "Do you want me dead? How about young Malfoy here?" She placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. He tried unsuccessfully to shrug it off.

"What?" she continued. "It wasn't bad enough for you last time? You need a rematch?"

Snape's expression turned cold. "That's absurd and you know it."

"Do I?" she mocked, stepping closer, the heat of the rage and the wine emboldening her. "All I know is that I gave nearly all I had on a gamble that didn't pay off. I lost." She took a shallow breath, but it did nothing to calm her. "Only a fool would play that game again."

"Don't do that," Snape spat contemptuously. "Don't pretend that the rest of us didn't risk just as much."

Jude narrowed her eyes. "What?" She shrugged her shoulders. "What do you want from me?"

He looked levelly at her. "Your help," he answered simply. "With the prophecy."

"What prophecy?" Draco chimed in, curious. He scowled at the hard glares from both.

She shook her head slowly. "What difference is it going to make, really?" Her nerve was wearing.

"That, thankfully," Snape intoned, "is not your decision to make. Your only decision is whether or not you will do your duty or not."

The hard, gray eyes flashed fire. "My duty!" The bottle smashed against the wall carrying all the force she could muster, mere inches from his head, yet he did not flinch. "You bastard! That was always it, wasn't it? The button that you could push. You and Dumbledore think that I would crawl on my hands and knees through the fires of Hell as long as I owed you. My duty!" she spat. "Hang duty! I'm done with it." She brushed past him in a blur, crunching the snow and glass beneath her feet. "I'm done with all of it!"

When he could no longer hear her footfalls behind him, Snape allowed a weary sigh to escape and he pressed his long fingers to his eyes. "Why me?" he groaned.

Draco opened his mouth, a smart answer at the ready.

"That was rhetorical," Snape said, cutting the boy off before he even started.

The wooden door of the Astronomy Tower rattled violently on its hinges as it was thrown open in fury. With her fists clench, she screamed her rage into the night air, a piercing, angry animal cry that did not cease until she was forced to gasp for air.

"That really should come with a warning, you know."

Her eyes were wide and startled, even as they slid sideways to catch a glimpse of the witness of her frustrations. Her shoulders fell. "Oh, no."

He raised his eyebrows and smiled at the welcome. "I believe," he began with a smirk, the shock of surprise wearing away from both parties, "the common pleasantry is 'Good Evening.'" He stumbled to his feet and made her a little bow.

She crinkled her nose. "You're drunk, Black." Her words were bland and distasteful.

He nodded with a crazed grin. "Touché."

Frowning with supreme annoyance, she debated a hasty retreat or to stand her ground. But she didn't want to fight anymore and she definitely didn't want to escape via the classroom so filled with her friend, Indira's ghosts. So she stayed.

"Perhaps," she confided, walking to the edge and breathing in the dizzying height. It soothed her.

"Grand!" he said sloppily, the grin having receded none. When this did not induce a smile, he furrowed his brow and conformed to the frown.

The silence covered them as the snow blanketed the hills far below. She stared without blinking over the stone and into the space beyond, her hands raking the snow off the railing absently. That eerie desire came, unbidden, again…Just jump and everything will be grand. Everything you want if only for the courage to leave this high place and fall…

"You think about him," he said, his gruff voice fairly soft, still rough. "Don't you."

Her lips pressed firmly together into a thin, agitated line. "Of course I do." What irritating game was he about? "He was my brother. How can I not think about him?"

Black smiled. "I wasn't talking about Remus." He laced his fingers together and placed them behind his head, regarding her with a steady, triumphant stare.

Her steely eyes slid sideways once more. This was a gesture that he'd attributed to her, a quirk. It was intrinsically feline and…and treacherous. And he didn't like it.

She arched her eyebrows in supreme defiance. "I have no idea what you're on about, Black."

Flippant, cavalier. Good. This was going somewhere.

His smile widened, but this time it did not reach his eyes. "You don't have to worry your little head about that, Elliot," Black said without preamble. "Peter is my concern."

Rounding on him, her face became as fierce and unwelcoming as the ice on the lake. Hard and immensely cold. "Your concern?"

Black got to his feet. "Remus was my best friend," he said, feeling her mood change swiftly. He'd been right all along. But he could not feel triumph in it. "Leave it to me."

"Leave it to you?" Jude repeated with growing hostility. She was bristling for a fight. "No, Black. I want this too much." He took a step closer, but the insane glint in her eye told him further advance would be unwise. "He's mine," she said in a low voice, the undercurrent of malice strong.

"Besides," she said in an offhanded way, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully, "I thought James was your best friend." She frowned and regarded him. "Well," she continued, "If you want to avenge him, then, here's your chance. You'd be doing me a favor."  
She held her arms out at her side and waited, daring him to have his revenge.

Black did nothing.

"Oh, come on," she taunted, "what of the grand Gryffindor? All of the pride and none of the courage, then?"

"And what of you?" he spat. "A lot of talk, for a Slytherin. No cunning, though. I really thought you were better than this, Elliot." He shook his head. "Revenge would be wasted on you."

Jude frowned. "Pity," she said, and it sounded to his ears as if she truly meant it. "We could have saved ourselves a world of trouble."

Black scowled at her for a long, chilly moment. Shaking his head, he stalked toward the door. His dark eyes held hers and he took her measure. "At least we know where we stand, then," he proclaimed as he ducked into the castle.

"That we do."

It had dawned a hard, cold day. A warm sun the day before had melted the soft, newly fallen snow. The night had sealed the tiny rivers and rivulets into harshly etched lines and creases in the blanket of white, a marbled landscape of darkly veined, starkly crisp January.

Jude had stopped shivering hours ago as she watched the sun climb towards its scant winter zenith, her steel colored eyes reflecting its light but none of its warmth. She felt only a reptilian sense of balance with the world around her—ice without and within.

The sun, however, would fight for a higher peak every day. The snow would melt. The leaves would unwind cautiously out of the brittle and scarred skeletons of the trees. The rivers would run high and fast from the mountains and the rocks would bask in the sun, soaking up the warmth. Yet under her too thin flesh, she would never be warm again. It was eternally winter.

She did not move for the duration of the day. When the sun burned out over the horizon, she tossed her last cigarette into the snow and watched it fizzle and die. She turned and ducked into the cold darkness of the school.

Albus Dumbledore allowed his eyes to linger on the paper in his hand. He had seen her enter his office, but he needed a moment to gather his wits before he looked up into the cold and unfeeling face that he loved so well.

"Miss Elliot," he said, welcoming her with a smile.

She did not move. "Headmaster," she said blandly.

He moved a hand in the direction of a plush chair in front of him. "Please."

"I prefer to stand." Her head was pounding and she still felt a bit dizzy, but if she could keep it from him she would be glad. "And I wish to come straight to the point, if you please."

He nodded sagaciously.

"I've come prepared to deal." Her hands were knotted together behind her, but he could only perceive calm.

"Deal?" he asked after a moment's thought-filled pause.

It was her turn to nod. "A deal. I have something you want," she conceded easily. "And you have something I want."

His eyebrows raised in interest. "My dear," he said with sincerity, "You have only to ask. I withhold nothing from you. I thought this was apparent to you?"

She smiled bitterly. "You have been most kind to me over the years, Headmaster. And I owe you nothing short of my very life." A weary sigh escaped. "Which is the very thing I ask of you."

The Headmaster was taken aback. He stood to his feet and gave her a steady look. "My dear, I have never…"

She held up a hand. "No," she conceded, "not in so many words. But I have given you absolute obedience and loyalty for nearly sixteen years." Her glance fell to the floor. "Call me a coward, call me what you will…but I want no more of this war." When she looked up again, her eyes were like flint. "And if I have to trade the ammunition for the next round of battles for my pardon, I will." A dubious frown crossed her features. "Although I don't pretend to know what a thousand-year-old prophecy that's as vague as a sphinx' riddle is any good for."

"It is imperative," a voice sounded behind her, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. Professor Snape regarded her coldly before brushing past her and moving over to Dumbledore. "Perhaps it is his first mistake?" he asked the old man skeptically.

A sheaf of parchment was handed from one to the other. Dumbledore stared at the contents of the paper, his frown deepening. Glancing upward, crystal eyes cutting straight to her core over his silly half-moon glasses, he held her stare with the utmost gravity. "Miss Elliot," he said, laying the parchment aside. "Let us just say that 'imperative' is being cautious."

Jude fought the urge to roll her eyes. "End of the free world and all that jazz, I hear you," she answered in a bored tone. "But I'm not in it anymore for guts and glory." She strode forward and placed both hands on the Headmaster's desk, leaning over it. From here, he looked so small and frail, and with a guilty pit in her stomach, she could not deny that there was a small pleasure in that. "And if you want what I've got, then you have to let me go. Wash your hands of me."

Professor Snape regarded her with such a look of suspicion and mistrust. "What, perchance, is this all about, Elliot?" He turned to Dumbledore. "For I haven't the pleasure of understanding her, Headmaster."

Dumbledore sighed wearily. "I believe I do."

Jude gave Snape a withering glance. "What this is about? You want to know what this is about?" She was shouting now. "It is about me…walking away from this place for once and for all…free…without looking over my shoulder, wondering when Dumbledore's henchman will show up and command me back to my _duty_."

"We all of us have our duty." Snape bristled with rage.

Jude regarded him with a calm anger. "And this is my last," she said, casting a diplomatic glance in Dumbledore's direction.

He felt at a mark. The Headmaster bowed his head in thought for a moment. "If you wish it, my dear, you have only to ask. I will not seek you out if that is what you truly want." His tone was sad and Jude felt the old twinge of guilt. "And I will only ask for one thing in return."

Jude felt her shoulders lift a little. "What is that, Headmaster?" she asked suspiciously.

"A small task," he said plainly. "An object I must see safe at this school."

Jude smirked. "Safe and this school I do not consider synonymous any longer, Headmaster."

He was nonplussed. "Do this for me, Jude Elliot, and you have my word."

She regarded him for a long moment. His eyes did not hold any deceit or trickery. And so, with much trepidation, she got the better of her doubts and held out her hand. He took it in his bony, pale grasp and smiled warmly. A vague, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, but she was not sure why.

Dumbledore held his smile firmly and gestured for Jude to take a seat. "Now," he began as she reluctantly sat before him, "about this prophecy. I believe the beginning is a good place to start."


	59. Winter Eternal

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Winter Eternal

_'I'll sing it one last time for you,_

_Then we really have to go._

_You've been the only thing that's right,_

_In a lifetime.'_

'Run', Snow Patrol 

Jude rubbed her temples with her fingers, wishing she could block it all out. "Julius and Augustus, of course," she explained. "Roman calendar, months named after emperors." She opened her eyes again and stared at Albus Dumbledore blankly. "It was so obvious, I cannot fathom why Voldemort would overlook it."

"But you solved it," Snape added as he paced behind her, a sense of urgency in his movements. Jude wondered why.

"Just that bit," Jude said quickly, defensively. "I don't even see its relevance. And I have no clue as to the rest."

Dumbledore heaved a minute sigh, his blue eyes fixed on her. She avoided them. "It is relevant, of course," he said quietly. "It is his birthday."

Jude frowned. "Whose? Harry's?"

The old headmaster nodded solemnly. Yet she remained skeptical.

"That's highly coincidental. I'll bet there are ten other students his age with the same birthday, at least."

Dumbledore cast a cautious glance over her shoulder at the man behind her. He had not stopped the incessant motion. With reserve, the headmaster broke the short but powerful silence. "Prophecy is just that, 'highly coincidental.' Coincidence stacked upon coincidence, events that seem, happenstance, to fall in line with such foretold events. It is not exact," Dumbledore continued. "One must keep both eyes open. And there is a degree of, shall we say, trial and error, associated with prophecy." He gave the girl an unmistakable glance, and although she did not want to catch his meaning it was unavoidable.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to ask. "How many, Professor?" She felt a chill, gripped the arms of the solid chair until her fingers were white. "How many with the same birthday?"

"One other," answered Snape in an unfeeling monotone. Jude glanced back over her shoulder, a challenge to her look.

"Who?"

"Longbottom," he said without preamble.

She closed her eyes tightly. "So few."

Dumbledore nodded. "Trial and error. Voldemort finally found the one he'd been looking for all those years."

"Years?" Her throat felt so tight she could barely speak.

"Years." The old man stared intently at his hands, lost in thought. "Voldemort learned of the prophecy only two years before. But," he said, the cloud lifting partially and he attempted a smile, "he had not yet narrowed the dates…not until…"

His words echoed in her head. "Until me," she said, breathless. Her frown turned into a scowl. "Are you telling me that _I _am responsible for the worst babyhunt since Herrod?"

"No," Dumbledore was quick to say. "Not at all. It was not you who killed the innocent. Remember that, my dear."

"Bollocks," Jude breathed quietly, pressing her palms to her forehead. So bloody typical! She resented like the devil that they played that card. Those were the most guilt-burdened words ever laid at her feet. It took all of her presence of mind to take her hands away from her face, still burning with rage and finish this. Then it would be done. Over. She could forget.

"So he narrowed down the little nippers to just one," she continued, her tone strained. "Then what?" Jude looked at Dumbledore for help. "That's not all he needed to know. The prophecy is just a lot of double talk. It promises defeat and then glory for Voldemort." She shook her head. "Doesn't that put us back where we started?"

"The first part of the prophecy pertains to Harry, this we know," Dumbledore stated. "The second part, I must say, was a complete surprise when I heard you utter it but a few days before."

"I didn't make it up," Jude said, wide eyed. "At least I don't think." She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. The words poured over her like a cold soaking rain. They were not hers, they belonged to another—indeed she could hear his voice. "The monk."

She was not aware she had spoken.

When she opened her eyes again, Dumbledore was staring hard at her. Snape had ceased his pacing.

"What?" Jude asked incredulously. "Why are you both staring at me like that?"

"You said 'the monk,' Jude," Snape said warily. "What do you know?"

She turned around in her chair to glare at her former teacher. "What do _you _know?"

His eyes, deep, black and very unfriendly fixed on her for a bare moment, before he answered. "Less than you," he confessed. "But I have seen the pensieve." He resumed his thought-filled pacing. "I saw Salazar Slytherin's memory. The monk, Brother Marcel, made the discovery for him." He turned his full attention back to Jude. "Although," he said flatly, "the prophecy as I saw it was slightly abbreviated. Where did the rest come from?"

Jude felt a self-satisfied smirk tickle the corner of her lips, but she resisted. "Obviously," she replied, "Voldemort didn't trust anyone to see the entire foretelling."

Dumbledore was studying her. "But he let you see it?"

"No," she confessed. "Not…exactly." They both stared, silent. "I had a lot of time on my hands, you know. I was a curious kid…a stupid kid. I took a peek, so what?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I am quite indebted to that child for her curiosity," he admitted. "Because of it, we know we have a key to his undoing."

"Yet we still have no identity for this 'Judas,' do we?" Snape questioned, searching Jude's face for the concealed answer. It was not forthcoming.

"I don't follow," she eluded. "Do you suggest that we find this person alluded to in the final part and…kill him?"

"Just as he killed in search of Harry," Dumbledore said rather coolly. "We shall destroy his guarantee of ultimate power."

"That means," Snape offered blandly, "we find this person and neutralize the threat."

Jude's face was wide in astonishment. "_Neutralize the threat_? Are you suggesting 'trial and error,' headmaster? Are we supposed to kill as indiscriminately as Voldemort?"

"Not indiscriminately," Snape amended.

Dumbledore was firm on his point though. "Can you think of no one who fits that description?"

Jude smirked, feeling the sharp stare of Professor Snape at her back. "I can think of a few," she offered unhelpfully. "One more than not comes to mind, though," she remanded. Feeling the warm satisfaction of events playing into her hand, she announced confidently, "Peter Pettigrew."

The headmaster nodded. "He does stand out as the obvious choice."

"And," she said frankly, "what do you plan to do?"

He read her sudden interest quite correctly. "I plan," the headmaster said steadily, "to proceed with the utmost caution. We will only follow this course when all else has failed."

"Do you mean," Jude choked, "that you will only kill Peter when Voldemort has succeeded in killing Harry."

"I mean," Dumbledore rebuked, "that I am loath to condemn any man. And absolutely no harm will come to Harry Potter. I intend to keep him out of this entirely, if such a thing is possible."

"Correct me if I am in error," Jude clarified, "but if Harry does, in fact, cut Voldemort down with the sword of Gryffindor, then _Peter_ can somehow bring the bastard _back_?"

Snape smirked. "In a nutshell, yes."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Jude cried with impatience. "You get Voldemort, I take Peter out and everyone goes home happy. World saved, end of story."

Dumbledore removed his glasses. "In the simplest terms, that is what _could_ happen."

"Could?" Jude repeated incredulously. "I thought that's what the prophecy said _would_ happen."

"A stack of coincidences, my dear," Dumbledore rectified. "That is the simplest conjecture. We currently have no idea of Voldemort's whereabouts, and absolutely no clue as to what he is up to."

Snape cleared his throat.

Dumbledore paused, and then amended, looking at the letter in his hands, "We have _almost_ no clue."

Jude looked between the two of them, growing uneasy by the second. "Just tell me," she demanded finally.

Laying the parchment flat on his desk, he removed his half-moon spectacles and leveled with her. "Tell me what you know about the Sword of Slytherin."

Jude blinked, bewildered. "Myth." She sat pensively for a moment, trying to reconcile everything she'd heard with the screaming doubts in her head. "I know it's mentioned by Monk What's-his-name, but it hasn't been proved that it ever existed. It's a fairytale. Like Merlin and Camelot."

"Like Merlin?" Dumbledore queried. "Most definitely real, then. If not a bit distorted."

"Oh yeah," Jude countered, "Where is the sword now?"

The headmaster and the professor exchanged glances. "In grave jeopardy," the old man said. "It was rumored to have been buried with the last surviving founder of this school, Rowena Ravenclaw."

"And that would be…where?" Jude questioned skeptically. "No one knows where she is buried either."

"Oh, stop playing devil's advocate, Elliot," Snape broke in. "You saw in the pensieve just as I did."  
She shook her head. "I _saw_ nothing," she countered. "Marcel and Slytherin discussed it a lot, but I _saw_ nothing."

"It exists, my dear," Dumbledore confessed. "Whether we would like it to or not, it most definitely exists."  
"The Sword of Slytherin," she said, supremely mocking. "The Eternal Blade? I can't believe I'm even discussing this. It is just a legend!" She shook her head, on the verge of laughing. "The sword that would give eternal life to whoever dared to die by its blade. What a whole lot of…"  
"It is the truth," Dumbledore defended. "And it is the prize Voldemort seeks. We have proof."

"Ravenclaw's crypt was ransacked," Snape chimed in.

Jude shook her head, more incredulous. "Every first-year knows no one is buried there."

"But it does point to the fact that someone is checking every last corner. Someone, I think we know who, _is_ looking."

Jude held up her hands in surrender. "Fine. You want to joint the wild goose chase. Where, then, do you suggest we look?"

Headmaster Dumbledore smiled. In his hand he held out a silver chain. "I suggest we look in the past." He handed her the object.

She blinked, surprised. "This is a timeturner."

"As you see."

The tiny hourglass charm dangled in front of her astonished eyes, winking in the light. "I'm not quite certain I understand, Headmaster," she confessed, struck by the weight of what she was hearing.

He smiled benevolently. "What I propose," he began, "is that we intercept the weapon in question, before it even has the chance to fall into the wrong hands."

Her head was spinning with the sheer number of implications, the risks unfathomable. "But…we'd be breaking about a thousand laws. And…what is this thing?" she asked, poking a finger mistrustfully at the hourglass. "Years?"

"Centuries," Dumbledore qualified.

Jude frowned. "A bit crude, isn't that?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "We won't make this a rushed expedition. We will have time to smooth things over."

She nodded. "Right. But…" She still wasn't sure. "Wasn't the sword intercepted, as you said, hundreds of years ago? I mean, Slytherin isn't alive today because someone slipped him a decoy. And he was more than happy to run himself through on Joe Knight's service weapon instead of the Eternal Blade. Case closed, psycho dead."

"Yet the sword was made," Snape rounded on Jude, annoyed at her circumlocution. He pointed a thin finger at the sword above the headmaster's desk. "Every up has its down, Miss Elliot. Every measure its countermeasure."  
"But…go back in time? That far? That's insane!"

"Perhaps, but…" Dumbledore began but he was cut off mid-sentence.

"Time is _not_ elastic! You can't just go gallivanting back and forth between centuries, stealing what you will! History simply doesn't bounce back once it's changed." Jude was frantic.

"That is why you have only one shot at it," Snape illuminated.

Her mouth fell open with grave surprise. "I have one shot?! Me?"  
Dumbledore nodded heavily. "You, my dear, have witnessed the scene in question, uniquely qualifying you for such a venture. You will be in no danger, my dear. If you remain out of sight."

"But…" she stammered.

"You already agreed," Snape reminded her heartlessly. "You said you would see something safely back to this castle in exchange for your…self-determination."

Her expression darkened. "And I keep my word," Jude reminded. "Just tell me the basics here: how long do I have and how the _hell_ do I do something like this?"

The headmaster smiled benignly. "Do not worry, my dear. All we have is time."

Jude huddled into her coat like a rabbit attempting to hide. The wind was howling over the river as she made her way down the familiar street toward the great stone halls of Cambridge. The promise of warmer days seemed so elusive on days like this where the bitter chill of the winter wind seemed to seep into every bone. Or perhaps it was the chill of the memories. This place was shaded with ghosts.

She walked faster, desperate for the escape, to reach the warm confines of the ivy clad hall and leave the street that they had walked together so many times. It was really a mix of feelings—this was once the place where she thought she could be happy, where she had a future, a family. And the tug at her heart was so acute it was a physical pain. Those days had faded with the warmth of summer. Summer would indeed replace these chilly January days, but for her, winter would be forever. Eternal.

"It's true, what they say," Jude said blandly, her eyes stinging from the cold, her nose bright red. "You really can't go home."

"And that's supposed to mean what, exactly?" Draco was huffing dramatically in the cold, trudging with extra labored movement through the snow. "It would have been so much easier to apparate, you know."

"You didn't have to come," she said, her steel gray eyes cutting sideways.

A disgruntled frown tugged at his lips. "I wasn't about to spend another day inside that castle. It was starting to feel like prison. I was just merely stating that this is unnecessary."

Jude sighed, a white puff of steam crystallizing her eyelashes. "Muggles, Draco," she reminded him unnecessary. "It's illegal, you know that."

He smirked. "Since when do you care what's illegal or not? Especially now since your lot practically owns the Ministry now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jude asked wearily. "The Weasleys are my _lot_ now?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, I meant Dumbledore's friends." He huffed and puffed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, black cloak dusted with snow. "You know, I think you like this. You are such a masochist."

She was silent. If only he knew how wrong he was. Or how right…

"Look," she spoke, breaking the brief silence. "This should take only a little while, but it's very important."

The boy nodded once. "Got it," he said, business-like. "I'll be as silent as the grave. You'll never know I'm here."

Jude pushed open the thick wooden door and she and Draco slipped into the warm glow of electric light and heat, the feeling so patently Muggle, so reminiscent of…here. Cambridge. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of books and old wood and floor polish.

"Right," Draco broke in, "I see the importance now. Standing in a hallway, dripping with snow. It's all so clear now."

Jude nudged him with her elbow. "This way, wiseass."

Draco trotted after her, Jude striding down the glowing corridor with such impatience, glancing from side to side. They passed door after door, thick wood with frosted glass panes, austere black lettering pronouncing departments and dour faculty. She took the wooden stairs two at a time, continued down another hall until she finally stopped in front of a door identical to all the others. The serious black letters spelled out a name Draco didn't recognize, nor cared to. The department, Medieval Archaeology. The purpose, he couldn't begin to fathom.

Draco stared at Jude as she stared at the door. "Well…are you going to open it?"  
"Right," she said absently as she pulled the door open. Inside was a wide wooden desk dominating the tiny office, a few chairs scattered before it. Electronics were scattered everywhere: A computer weighting the dark oak desktop down, a fax machine blinking a visually cacophonous red and green, papers spilling out of its tray, a phone with several lines blinking in use. So many stacks of papers, back issues of professional journals and newspapers jockeyed for the rest of the space. Behind this wall of neglected media sat a young woman posted firmly at her desk barring access to the offices behind, and firmly ignoring everything but this month's _Cosmopolitan_.

Jude waited politely for the girl to notice, but her darkly lined eyes remained on the glossy pages. "Excuse me," she broke in impatiently. "I'm here to see…"  
"He's out," the girl said flatly.

Jude's frown deepened. Draco's smirk brightened.

"Impossible," Jude insisted. "I just phoned. I'm supposed to meet…"  
"You have an appointment," the girl said, looking up finally, her eyes traveling the length of Jude and summing her up in an instant. From the look on her face, she wasn't impressed.

Jude's look was firm. "Yes," she said, "I do."

Draco shouldered his way in front of Jude and smiled at the woman. "Hullo," he said smoothly, "the name's Draco. Forgive me, I didn't quite catch yours…"  
The woman smiled. "Sara," she said, showing interest in something other than the slick words in her hand. "You're quite the charmer, aren't you…"  
Impatiently, Jude shoved her way through the narrow gap between the desk and the bland colored wall, heading for the door marked _Henry McAffee. _"Sara," she snapped, "lovely to meet you, but we really are in quite a rush." She grabbed Draco by the arm and marched him to the door. The girl stood at once, calling after them in a disgruntled staccato.

"Hey! You can't just go in…"

Jude ignored her, slamming the door shut in her face. She could hear her muffled protestations.

"…Susan can just find someone else to fill in for her…"

Inside, Jude blinked, the sudden dark taking her by surprise. "Bloody nonsense," she spat, taking a good look around the room.

"I thought she was nice," Draco said innocently.

Jude shot him a distasteful glance. "She's too old for you." She took a few steps into the center of the room, the only light radiating from one lone desk lamp. "Professor McAffee?" she asked warily. Draco at once moved to the desk and began rifling through papers.

"Odd," she said quietly. "He said he would be here all day."

"What were you looking for anyway? 'Mountains From Molehills: Medieval Hillforts of Middlesex.' Exciting." He threw the paper down on the desk, suddenly frowning. His attention was pulled in the direction of a scatter of papers on the floor of the otherwise tidy office. "Site 919: Tenth Century Monestary, Clonmacnoise, Ireland."

Quickly Jude crossed the small office and snatched the file from his hand. "Bingo," she said, leafing through the loose pages, concentrating intensely. A rough drawing, a schematic here, a map there—she had a very good feeling about this. Some subconscious connection. It was electric.

"Does this seem a bit…strange," she said finally, the air eerie and stifling.

Draco nodded quietly, fingering a sharp letter opener dropped carelessly on the desk. He shrugged, wandering aimlessly toward a large map of Ireland hung from a peg on a closet door. He studied it for a moment, then peered behind the door curiously.

"Uh, Jude?"

"Yeah," she said as she continued to flip the pages in the flimsy filing folder. "What is it?"

"The Professor," he said, mildly startled.

She looked up instantly, her brow furrowed. "Where?" she asked, glancing cautiously at the door. She tucked the file inside her coat. "Come on. We really shouldn't be here."

Draco peeked out from behind the closet door. "I don't think he'd mind."

Her frown deepened. "Why?"

"Because," Draco explained, running a hand through his pale blond hair, "Dead men could really care less."

She was by his side in an instant. It was apparent that the man had not been touched. His tweed suit was not rumpled, his whispy white hair in its usual disarray. There was no blood, no bruises. He looked just like she remembered him. But the expression on his face noted that he was just as shocked by his own death as they were.

Jude sucked in a tense breath then quickly grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him out of the room.

"Ow!" he protested. "Slow down, Jude. What are we running from? You don't even know…"  
They moved cautiously around Sara's temporary bastion of secretarial despotism. The tyrant was gone, however. Jude tugged Draco out into the hallway, her eyes darting cautiously this way and that. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"We have to know who else saw Professor McAffee today."

Draco wrestled his arm from her grasp. "You're crazy, Jude! He was old, you saw him! It was probably a heart attack, or a stroke!"

"No," Jude said steadily. "I've seen that look before. He was murdered."

"Murdered!" Draco shouted incredulously.

Jude scowled. "Shh! Do you want the entire building to hear you?" Tugging her coat around her shoulders, the reassuring files pressed against her, she hurried out into the snow. "Come on, Draco. We have to find…Sara!"

The girl turned and smiled. But her smile quickly melted into a sour snarl. "Bugger off! I'm trying to enjoy my ciggy break here!" The girl crossed her arms against the frigid cold, a black knitted cap crushed brutally over her ears.

"I don't mean to be a bother," Jude started.

The girl laughed at that.

"I just have a quick question," she pleaded. "Did anyone else come to see Professor McAffee today."

She snorted, laughed again. "Did they! Yes," she said, her frown returning. "I tell you, I don't know how Susan puts up with you lot. Rude, pushy, every last one of you."

"Please," Jude pressed her, "can you remember what they looked like."  
"Looked like!" the girl parroted mockingly.

"It's very, very important."

She exhaled a frosty cloud and twisted her mouth in thought. "Like typical snooty-pants board members. More money than manners."

"What did they _look_ like?" she repeated.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she said snappishly. "One was a big bloke, dark hair, sounded Russian."

"Russian?" Jude repeated.

"Yeah, you hard of hearing?" She took another drag, the same thoughtful expression. "The other was real slick. Looked like you, little man." She pointed a pink-nailed finger at Draco. The kid froze. "Quite a good-looking fellow, but rude. Haughty, you know."

Draco shifted uneasily, glaring at Jude. "What would she know, anyway? She's just a secretary!" He marched off in the snow, throwing an angry glance at the woman.

"Fine thing!" she shouted, tossing her cigarette into the snow. "I've had enough of this, see!" And she marched off in the other direction, away from the building where Professor Henry McAffee lay dead in his office closet.

"Thank you!" she shouted at the woman's back. The woman replied with a rude gesture.

It didn't take long for Jude to catch Draco up, but when she did, she wasn't sure it was the best idea. His face was contorted in rage, his pale cheeks were red, and his breathing came in rough gasps. "Slow down," she commanded gently.

He rounded on her suddenly. "It wasn't him! She's lying!"

Jude was stunned. She didn't know what to say. "I didn't say…"  
"I know what you were thinking, and you're wrong." He was shouting, his fists balled in rage.

"Perhaps," she admitted. "But this is really bad, Draco. I don't know what to do." She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "I needed to know what I was up against. Whether your father…I had to know."  
He shrugged her hand off. "You're wrong. My father's been in…"

Jude sucked in a deep breath. "Where, Draco. You can tell me."

His lips tightened into a thin, immovable line and he held her stare with the utmost trepidation.

"Listen," she attempted once more, "I have to do something very dangerous. That's why I needed to talk to McAffee. I was trying to get a picture of exactly what I'm dealing with. And if Lucius is involved…"  
"He's not, okay," Draco said, nearly pleaded.

"It could cost me my life," she finished, her tone even, merely stating facts. "Do you want me dead, Draco?"

His shoulders lost a little of their rigidity and he eyed the frosted ground. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "I don't."

"Then tell me."

It was when they crossed the Silver Street Bridge that she heard her name. Draco frowned, mid sentence and turned, curious. A man was striding toward them quickly. Dark-haired, an open, honest face, this man was Muggle even a mile off. Draco watched the anxiety grip Jude fiercely. Her hand was shaking, she was afraid.

"Jude! Jude Elliot!" The man jogged the last few yards. "My God! I can't believe it's really you."

"Lex," Jude said in a strained politeness. "It's been…gosh…what….years?" she stammered.

"Over three," he said, taking her un-offered hand and shaking it warmly. "The last time I saw you was when…when you walked out of the hospital…after Rhys died."

Draco watched Jude swallow hard, and gasp for a breath. "Right," she said, fighting for composure.

Lex's mood had turned grave at the memory. "Where did you go?"

"I…I…" she choked. Her breathing was shallow, erratic.

"Hullo," Draco chimed in distractingly, "I'm Draco. I'm her…"  
"He's the son of a close friend," Jude lied quickly. "I'm babysitting."

"Babysitting?!" Draco and Lex said at the same time, causing Jude to jump slightly.

"Aren't you a little old…" Lex began.

"Aren't you a little…" Draco was about to counter.

"Draco," Jude cut in just in time, putting her hand reassuringly over his shoulders and drawing him close. "Give me just a minute, all right?"

He hesitated, giving Lex a nasty look before strolling slowly to the side of the bridge and glancing over the stone rail to the frozen water below. Jude watched him, the twisting, equilibrium-bending feeling of déjà vu spinning her head. He was standing just where Rhys had stood when…

"You hurt a lot more people that night than just Rhys, Jude." Lex gave her a hard look. "Adda never got over it."

Jude hugged her arms around her, the wind blowing relentlessly in her face. "I…I didn't think…"  
"No," he snapped. "You don't…you never did."

Jude clenched her jaw, becoming a bit angered. "Look, I'll go see her, all right?"

"It's not all right!" he yelled. Draco looked up from the water, watching tensely.

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "What do you want from me?"

Lex took a few steps back, and Jude thought he was about to leave. But he came striding back, stopping just inches from her. "You know, I used to think Rhys was the luckiest bastard in the world. God, how I envied him. Adda adored him like the son she never had. He had your love. Hell, I would have given anything to be him. But then something happened. You did something, Jude. I saw you. You made him run. And it killed him."

"Stop it!" Jude screamed, her hands clenching the ends of her coat sleeves.

"You broke all of our hearts, Jude," Lex jabbed. "Rhys', Adda's…and mine." He sighed and backed away, his rage spent. "But I won't let it kill me…not like them."

"What?" Jude whispered. "She's dead?"

He looked at her miserably. "Last spring."

"Oh, God." Jude couldn't breathe.

Lex turned his back to her and strode away. Shoulders huddled against the wind, he turned one final glance at her and called, "I hope you're happy, at least."

"Keep walking, you bastard!" Draco yelled after him.

"Hush, Draco," Jude said. To him she looked thin, worn. Defeated and so sad, but not happy. Perhaps she could have been, but the cards stood like this, the stakes high. She had to walk away…then and now. "Let's go," she said finally.

"He was murdered," Jude insisted. She still felt the wearying daze of Cambridge and all that had happened weighing on her. "Draco saw him first. It appeared that he hadn't been harmed…Draco insists that he wasn't." Jude blinked against the firelight. "But it was in the old man's face. I know that look, Headmaster."

Dumbledore watched the flames for a moment. "So it has begun."

Jude nodded briefly. "The monastery is in Ireland, the tenth century. Clonmacnoise, it was rumored was under the patronage of Slytherin. Marcel was his personal scryer."

Snape watched her steadily. "Has there been any success in narrowing the date?"

She released a weary sigh. "Can't _you _tell _me_? I'll bet you memorized the bastard's memoirs."  
"I've read them," Snape conceded. "He makes mention of many trips to Ireland. The Ravenclaw lands were nearby, but it was no secret that the Ravenclaws reviled that order. The monastery was a rival and an undisclosed enemy."

"Fat lot of help that is." Jude huddled lower into the chair, straining to think…of anything. But Lex's words still ripped through her head like shrapnel. She closed her eyes, laying her head back on the soft cushion. The scene floated hazily in front of her mind's eye. She felt cold.

"Winter," she said absently, dislocated. "It was winter."

Snape and Dumbledore listened intently.

"There are noises, a hammering…the…constant talking of men. Giving orders, and pounding," she said, opening her eyes. "They were building something."

"In 996," Snape conjectured, "building began on the chapel, a grand feat. Salazar contributed heavily, even going so far as designing parts himself. I believe it was completed by midsummer."

Jude sat up straight. "996. A thousand years ago…Jesus," she whispered. "That's quite a jump. Do you think the guess is good?"

Dumbledore took off his spectacles and rubbed his nose. "It seems it is the best we have. And this…murder adds a sense of…urgency." He picked up the papers Jude had handed him. A detailed map of the excavation would help to keep the time-travelers concealed—it would be possible to fix on a location that was out of the way. There was a bit of wooded forest separating the monastery on the northeast side, a river beyond that. It would be a good place to start.

"It will be dangerous," Dumbledore added, breaking his reverie. "I absolutely insist that you go with someone."

"That's not necessary, Headmaster," Jude interjected firmly. "I can take care of myself."

Snape shook his head. "It is not up for discussion."

"Sirius Black, perhaps," Dumbledore added hopefully. "He is surefooted in the field."  
Jude clenched her fists. She wanted to add that last time she was in the field with Black, he left her and Remus to the goblins and vampires of Switzerland while he high-tailed it back to England. "No." She was adamant.

"I thought not," Dumbledore said, a bit defeated. "I had better use him for some other purpose then."

Jude frowned. She wanted to ask what purpose that was, her thoughts straying to Peter Pettigrew. "I'm sorry?" Someone had been talking to her.

"Is there no one you trust enough, Jude? I refuse to let you go alone," Snape demanded.

"There is one," Jude said, unsure. "But I don't know if he'll do it."

Dumbledore smiled. "Do not worry about that, my dear," he said with a sage smile. "Mr. Weasley would do anything for you."


	60. A Stack Of Coincidences

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Sixty: A Stack of Coincidences

_'Just when the ocean starts to dry_

_Just when the air is sick with smoke_

_Just when the statues start to cry_

_And fallen angels they lay broken_

_I will be there _

_I will be the smallest piece in everything_

_And I would lose my life_

_Before I break this promise to you_

_Melt into me_

_Don't you want to be_

_The ones that last forever?_

_I'll be your everlasting_

_And enemies they take your peace_

_But they won't last forever_

_I'll be your sword and shield and_

_I'll be your sword_

_I'll be your shield_

_I'll be your gracious angel_

_I'll be your favorite stranger_

_I'll be the mortar holding your walls_

_I'll be your army…'_

_'Sword and Shield,' Sister Hazel_

The door slammed with a loud bang. Sirius Black jumped, immediately pulling a wand from his sleeve, spinning instinctively to face his threat. He breathed a relieved sigh and put away his weapon, turning his attention back to the map spread on the large wooden table centered in the quiet library. The quiet was slated for demolition tomorrow night when the students arrived to finish the school year.

"Jude," Black said, mildly rebuking, "you shouldn't just barge in on people."

She stood her ground, glowering darkly. It caused him to look up once more from his study, frowning. "Bastard," she hissed, scowling with such fury he could feel it even from the distance. "I have a mind to go back to Dumbledore and insist that you come with me."

"By all means," Black consented, turning back to the work before him.

She took a few steps toward him. "You offered to go, didn't you? You told Dumbledore that you would be more than willing to go with me, knowing damn well I wouldn't let you within three yards of my mission."

He laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair and smiled. "Your mission," he laughed. "You don't even want to go…but to answer you, yeah, I knew you would," he said simply, smugly.

"Bastard!" She grabbed a heavy reference from the stack next to her and lobbed it with all her strength. It just missed his head and pounded to a halt on the dusty marble floor. Black jumped up immediately.

"Take it easy, Elliot!" Black crossed the distance, supreme displeasure on his face. "I didn't offer. Dumbledore asked and I suggested he leave it up to you. I guessed," he confessed with a pointed glance at the book that almost took his head off, "quite correctly, might I add, that you would be less than thrilled to have me along."  
"You're bloody right about that, Black!" she spat. "Why would I ever trust you again? You left us! Just left us! What kind of friend does that?"

He reacted with wiry reflexes. His thin but strong arms darted out for her, his fingers closing tightly around her upper arms. He pulled her to him, his face, menacing, just inches from hers. "Now get this straight, Jude, for I won't repeat myself."

She struggled. "Let go!"

"Not until you've heard _me_ out for once!" he roared. "You've got to have someone to blame, don't you? Now I admit it. Peter was a decoy. He knew I would follow him. I understand this now. But by the time I caught him and made him talk, he let me know that you and Remus were beyond my help."  
She twisted but he wouldn't release her. "Still," she pressed, "you could have tried. He was your friend!"

"I know it!" he admitted, pained. "Peter made me realize how foolish it would have been to try to get to you. One man against a legion—I had to go for help. It was the only way…nobody knew where you were. Had I died trying to get to either of you…we would have lost you both."

She had given up trying to fight him. Her fists no longer pounded his chest. Her anger had turned to something else. She had to let go of it, could no longer hate this man and she knew it. She let her head fall forward, burying her face in her hands. "You came too late."

"Yes, I did," he said quietly, his fingers loosening their grip on her arms. "Too late for him. And I know you cannot forgive me for it."

She shook her head. "I cannot forgive myself."

"Well," he said equably, stepping back an arm's length from her so he could look at her, "if you could give me another shot, I think there is something we must do together." He glanced significantly over his shoulder. "I have a feeling he may be hiding back in Lucerne."

Looking down at the floor, she answered evenly. "No, he's here. In England, I know it."

"How?" Black asked, stepping back, surprised by this.

"Yesterday," Jude began, but the sound of the old library doors swinging open pulled the attention of both away from each other. Black dropped his hands immediately and took another step back. Jude reciprocated with a retreat of her own, suddenly aware of how close they were.

"Jude!" called Bill, striding through the doors with an easy amiability. "I came as soon as I got your letter." He swept her up in a long comforting hug. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," she stammered. "Nothing's wrong…I…I just have something to ask you."

"Well the answer is yes," he said with a broad smile.

Jude extracted herself from his enveloping embrace, giving him a steady appraisal. "Please don't answer until you've heard me out," she pleaded solemnly. With a deep breath, she plunged in. "Because what I am about to ask you to do is very dangerous. Deadly, in fact."

"Sounds brilliant," Bill said.

"Not quite," Jude replied darkly. "I have to go back to 996 to get some sword before Voldemort gets his hands on it. The kicker is," she continued, "that he may try to beat us to the punch. He knows we know."

"Yes," he interrupted, "of course, yes. I'll go." He took her hand. It was cold.

"Okay," Jude conceded. "It's got to be on my terms only. You read me?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"No weapons," she stipulated.

"Okay."

"Nothing modern."

"Got you."

She gave him a serious, measuring look. "And absolutely no magic."

"What?" he baulked. "No magic? How are we supposed to get there then?"

"You leave all of that to me, all right?" she countered, brooking no disagreement. "It's the way it has to be. For our own good."

He sighed heavily. "Okay, whatever you say."

"Good," she said finally. "We leave at first light." She pushed him toward the door, but before she ducked out of the library after Bill, she cast a cautious glance back at Black.

"Good luck," he offered sincerely.

She regarded him steadily. "You better not be pulling my leg, Black. Cause if this was all just an act, you better pray I don't come back."

Jude stared blankly at the mirror. "Thank God for hoods," she said, pulling the rough brown hood of the monk's cowl over her short hair. "Even my hair is too long to be passable. And I don't fancy another cutting."

Bill leaned against the wall, regarding her with a smile. "The sexiest monk I've ever seen."

She turned and held his stare evenly. "You know, it's not too late to back out, Bill. I'm serious, this could get very dangerous."

He pushed off of the wall, unfolding his arms from his chest, his identical cowl a far cry from the t-shirt he was wearing before. In a few steps he crossed the room to stand before her. "You have no idea how it felt, Jude." He reached one hand out to touch her pale cheek. "It was agony to be away from you."

"Bill," she cautioned, pulling away from him.

"I know," he said in response. "I know exactly what you're going to say. But I don't care. I would go to the ends of the earth for you and not expect anything in return. Just that you would let me."

She bit her lip, glancing toward the window. "It's almost light," she whispered, heading for the door. She slipped through into the serene darkness of the corridor, taking a deep breath.

"Elliot!"

She jumped at the sound of her name uttered just out of her sight. "Draco," she scolded as he stepped into the light. "You frightened me." She was finishing her preparations for their dangerous expedition, bringing a thin chain from her pocked and wrapping it around her neck. The timeturner that would send them back a thousand years. She dipped her hand into the deep pocket feeling the weight of the hastily made portkey that would take them to the woods, still standing, just outside of the excavation site in Ireland.

"Weasley!" Draco sneered as Bill stepped through the door behind her. "Ew, gross, Jude! You two weren't…"  
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Bill asked tersely,

Draco's lip curled with displeasure. "None of your business! It's between me and Jude. So take a walk, Weasley!"

"All right, enough," Jude scolded. "Bill, give me two seconds, please."

Bill nodded briefly, leaving her and the boy to their whispered conversations reluctantly.

"I can't believe you, Jude," Draco baulked. "He's so…poor!"

Jude rolled her eyes. "It's none of your concern. What do you want, Draco?"

"You're going after him, aren't you?" he hissed coldly. "Don't, Jude!"

"What are you talking about?" she replied, a bit confused.

"You won't find what you're looking for! They'll just kill you!"

"This is about your father, isn't it?"

Draco frowned. "I don't see what's so important! Why do you have to go after him?"

Jude shook her head. "I'm not going after him! I don't care about your father!"

"Don't…" he began again, but stopped, his throat tight. "Just promise me you won't hurt him. Please, Jude!"

She was silent, regarding the boy's sad, pleading eyes. "I don't know what he ever did to deserve the love of such a son."

Draco grabbed her hand. "Please, Jude," he insisted steadily.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "You have my word, Draco." Then she was gone, heading toward the doors and to the rising sun, toward a danger that she'd promised a boy she would not defend herself against.

She felt the frigid cold of the morning before she saw the pale beginning of the dawn. The hushed conversation ceased as she drew near. Blinking, she made the dim figures come into focus. Of course it was Bill. But he was quietly chatting with a dark figure not at all disposed to such tasks. Professor Snape regarded her coolly as she drew up beside Bill. The professor was made even more pale and severe by the dim morning hue. She hadn't realized she was staring until he had placed something sharp and cold in the palm of her hand. Indeed she hadn't even been aware that he'd taken her hand. She looked down. It was the silver necklace he had given her ages ago. A portkey.

"I thought I lost it," she breathed in astonishment.

He regarded her for a long moment. "You have not lost it."

She looked up once more to see the darkly retreating figure ducking back into the night-shrouded castle. She closed her hand around the charm, slipping it in her pocket. When she removed her hand once more, she held the tiny box containing the portkey that would take them to Ireland. With her other hand clasped tightly to Bill's, she glanced at him, her gray eyes brightened by the silver morning.

"Ready?" she asked. He nodded. She tossed the little metallic ball in the air and snatched it deftly from its fall. With a flash, they had disappeared.

Jude squeezed her eyes shut. The nauseating feeling, the tugging at her navel had stopped, the sickening spinning gone, only a residue of unbalance left. The wind no longer howled through the snowy mountains, scraping over the frozen lake in front of Hogwarts. Instead, there was the pit-pat of melting snow on the bare branches of the forest surrounding them.

Jude opened her eyes and glanced around. Spring was coming early to this place. Beneath her feet, bright shoots of grass peeked out of the crunchy, icy snow cover. From a short distance she could hear the proverbial babble of a brook breaking free of its winter armor. Birds chirped here, dancing on the branches, eager for the warmer days ahead.

Instinctively she looked around for Bill. He was beside her, cautiously searching the woods. He saw her and smiled—one could not help but feel a bit lighter in this place. She imagined that in spring, a more magical and greener place could not be found. It was enchanting.

Beyond the snow-covered field, Jude saw the low escarpments of the excavation, long, heavy tarps stretched over the bare earth to protect it from the weather until the work could be resumed.

"This is the place," she said, taking his hand in hers and tugging the chain from the neck of her robes. She held the timeturner between her thumb and forefinger, staring dubiously at the tiny object.

"Wait," Bill said suddenly. "How does this all _actually_ work?"

Her eyes fell to the curious object in her hand. "Turn it one way, and it sends you back in time. The other way and it propels you forward. Not much room for error, though let's just hope I didn't mix up the directions." And before she could second guess herself, she closed her eyes and squeezed his hand tighter. "Here goes nothing." She turned it and the woods melted around them.

When she opened her eyes again, they stood in the same woods, a large oak fallen just in front of them, moss-covered and dewy with the melted snow. Then a sound tickled her ears and she turned in that direction. It was the pounding of mallets. Work had begun for the day, she noticed as through the trees she saw the monastery. It was a low, wooden complex, but no less grand than she had imagined. And beginning to rise on the far side was the immense structure of the newly built chapel.

"It's stone!" she remarked, astonished.

"Yeah, and?" Bill asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I've never heard of stone structures before 1066, especially in Ireland. Except for Hogwarts." Jude moved a branch thickly crusted in crystalline ice for a better look. She saw the tiny figures of men in the early morning light skittering over a wooden framework, like spiders on a web, working together to complete the ambitiously pitched roof. "It looks nearly finished, too. I thought it wasn't completed until midsummer."

"Fire," Bill said, frowning. "I believe it was partially destroyed before it was ever complete, if I remember correctly." He smiled at her, amused. "Didn't pay much attention in History of Magic, did you?"

She scowled, but chose to ignore him. Looking over the snow, she saw the modest wooden wall that circled the complex. "Beyond that wall," she said, visualizing the map in her head, "is a garden, then the rectory beyond that." She tucked the chain back in the neck of her cowl, and gave Bill a long, hard look. After a few moments she frowned and held out her hand to him.

"Give it to me," she demanded.

"What?" he shrugged innocently.

"Your wand! Bill you promised!"

He furrowed his brow, but he pulled the wand from his sleeve. "Jeez, how did you know?"

She glared at him, pocketing the wand. "Ready, then?"

"As I'll ever be, I guess," he said, defeated.

The two monks emerged from the wood and crossed the snowy field at a steady pace. A curious pair: one was considerably taller than the other, the shorter appearing to be no more than a youth. Anyone watching from the many low, darkened windows of the monastery would have suspected that the thieves come in the morning, not the night.

With her hood drawn low, Jude was free to watch the grounds without impunity. And because of this, she could easily spot them. With a small nudge she pointed them out to Bill. He nodded, noting them as well.

"Soldiers," Jude breathed, her head still low. "Why would a monastery be guarded, Bill?"

Bill smiled beneath the thick coarse material. "A guest of honor."

They traversed the rest of the icy path to a wooden gate in the wall. Bill tested it. "Locked," he surmised with a quick look to Jude.

She stood on her toes and peeked through the small grate in the door. The garden beyond seemed unguarded. She breathed deeply and placed her hand on the locked latch. She whispered a word and the latch snapped open. They walked through as if they belonged there as much as the pumpkins and squash that rested in the icy hollows of the untended garden.

Reverently posed, Bill and Jude slipped into the rectory, silent as specters. All lights remained extinguished here as everyone remained either at prayer, or diligently employed elsewhere. Quietly, Jude nodded to a corridor that ran behind the far end of the darkened hall. With haste they made for this corridor. If Jude had understood the excavation correctly, this corridor ran almost perfectly north-south; go south and one would find row upon row of modest, narrow cells, and the clean order of the neatly kept cloister; north ended in the abbot's chambers. Jude felt herself pulled in this direction.

They crept along the corridor, keeping to the dark shadows, quiet and cautious of movement. Once they froze, pressed to the wall as a cluster of noisy guards resplendent in silver and green armor ducked into the rectory, obviously relieved of the night's duty. Jude let a brief sigh of relief escape her. They were too drunk to notice the two in the hall.

It was curious, Jude thought, or perhaps not that curious: the further they moved down this long corridor, the more lush and luxuriant it became. The corridor ended in a heavy, wide door of oak and iron. They heard quiet discussion behind it and before they had time to think or react the door swung slowly open. Several guards poured out of the warm and lavish apartments.

Jude froze, watching the door swing wide on its hinges. Pressed against the wall, she felt the thick rich texture of the tapestry behind her. Quickly, she grasped it in her hand, grabbing a fistful of Bill's robes in the other and pulled them both behind it. Jude held her breath and waited for the footfalls to die away. She slid against the wall to the far side of the tapestry in order to get a better view. She never made it there, however.

As she felt her way blindly along the wall, she fell into a deep recess. It was a hard fall, stone steps rising just behind her caught her elbow roughly and she felt the warm trickle of blood at her hairline, the dizzy feeling subsided quickly though and she was on her feet again. She reached around the corner and tugged Bill in after her.

"Look!" she whispered excitedly.

Bill grabbed her hand cautiously as she bounded for the steps. "What is this? Jude, we don't know what's up there!"

"I have a guess. Come on."

They crept side-by-side up the narrow, drafty steps in the blindest darkness. It was a winding, steep stair, concealed from everyone, she guessed correctly. Its use was revealed as they slipped around the last bend. A dim but warm light poured into the darkness and faint words floated on the heat to them.

The stairs came to an end in a little platform, high in the rafters of the small, circular room below. The light flooded the bottom portion of the space, coloring the walls a cozy honey, until about half way where the gray stone shifted to an ever-deepening dark that was nearly complete when it reached the high wooden beams that criss-crossed the open air, supporting a wooden roof.

Jude almost gasped in shock as she peered into the depths below her. An old man, very stout and bald crouched on a stool. He was dressed very much like them, but decidedly richer, more like his surroundings, fine and rich, than like the rest of the plain and austere monastery he ran. This fat man, perspiring heavily as he stared into a round dark and polished mirror Jude recognized immediately. It was the abbot, Brother Marcel.

A younger man by five or so years paced behind him. His green and silver cloak rippled behind him in an impatient, cat-like motion. The man was not impressive in size, but seemed to carry himself dangerously. He knew his strengths as well as he knew his enemies' weaknesses. This was Salazar Slytherin.

"The light, please," Marcel instructed Slytherin. He replied impatiently by yanking the one lone torch from its bracket in the wall and tossing it into a bucket of water. The room went dark in a hiss and splash. The only illumination came from a brazier of coals in the corner, heating the drafty space with a sinister, dim and hellish glow of the deepest red.

Jude sucked in a breath. "The mirror," she hissed. "He's scrying. Of course! This was the memory."

"What?" Bill asked, reaching for her in the dark. "Jude!" he whispered adamantly, but she had already moved beyond his reach. Jude stepped out onto the narrow wooden beam that crossed just before them, crouching low in the darkness and motioning for him to follow her.

"Are you crazy?" he hissed. She did not answer, but moved farther out onto the rafters, always intent on the scene below her. She reached a great crossbeam that jutted straight up, another bracing it diagonally with the horizontal beam that ran the diameter of the room. She ducked under the beam easily and skirted out onto the radiating beam to get a better look. Bill followed her, less agile, very cautious.

"Jude, I don't understand…" he began but stopped, looking at her face. In the low, red glow he could barely see her. Yet he knew she was whispering, echoing the words spoken below by the monk. She seemed to be in a trance, every feature fixed so determinedly on what progressed below. He could only watch, silent.

And then he heard it. A low noise from the hidden corridor, it was a metallic sound. From the look on her face, Bill guessed Jude heard it as well. They peered through the dark, but saw nothing. But in a blaze, Salazar had re-lit the torch and was unlatching the door. A guard stood there, waiting to be admitted. In his charge, the guard had a small man, no more than a lad. But there was something wise about the boy's face, something that suggested innumerable years, experience, knowledge. The answer to that came briefly.

Marcel stood uneasily to his feet, his massive girth making it difficult. "Well, elf," he said gruffly.

Salazar did not wait for Marcel to finish, with a zing, he'd unsheathed a glimmering dagger, a magnificent weapon. With no emotion, Salazar placed the blade under the boy's chin, lifting his face to look upon him. "Is it finished?" he asked brusquely.

The boy seemed to vacillate between remaining silent or replying. He judged wisely and answered. "Aye, it is my lord."

"The Eternal Blade," Salazar said, tasting the words on his tongue. "Complete."

"Well, not quite, my lord," the elf retracted, gulping as the knife's edge pressed further into his flesh. "I need the tears."

Salazar regarded him coldly but reluctantly removed the knife. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a jeweled vial. "Are you certain of this, elf?" Salazar asked before handing over the vial. "If you cross me, filth, you and the last of your wretched kind with be squashed into the dust with these very boots like the plagued rats you are."

The elf swallowed. "Quite certain, sir," he said, his voice quavering slightly. "We have done such magic since…"  
"Go," Salazar said, handing the vial to the guard. "I want it completed before the hour is out."

The elf bowed before the guard dragged him from the room.

Jude frowned. The movement, the metallic sound like the scraping of steel on stone, it came once more from the hidden stair. And then she saw him. His pale eyes fixed on her with a dastardly smile. She could not move, she could only stare at the demonic…angelic face. He looked so much like his son.

Lucius Malfoy smirked as he dangled his own dagger over the precipice.

"My wand, Jude," Bill demanded.

Jude could not respond, would not respond. Lucius let the dagger fall. As soon as the steel left his fingertips, Lucius turned and disappeared into the darkness, their only escape. Bill and Jude held their breath as they watched helplessly. The metal connected with the stone floor with a quiet, betraying clatter. Immediately, Marcel and Slytherin looked up.

"Impossible," Marcel breathed, peering into the lofty darkness.

Salazar locked eyes with Jude. He immediately knew their weakness. They were trapped. "Guards!" he bellowed.

The wooden door burst open and silver and green filled the room, a riot of weapons and shouts. Jude ducked behind the beam as an arrow whistled by her. "Let's get out of here!" she shouted to Bill, who had his back pressed against the beam, daring now and then to look out at their attackers.

Bill glanced over his shoulder to the doorway. It would be tough, but the guards didn't seem sure of their shots, several arcing wide. They could make it.

He ducked out from behind the beam and a rain of arrows greeted him. He was nearly to the other cross-section when he heard it. The clatter of armor-clad feet on the steps of the secret stairs. They were trapped! Bill looked around for something, anything.

There! A small rounded window let in the dim morning rays, cut from the wall at the end of the rafter. It was about ten paces away from him, he guessed. He looked from the window to Jude. The vast space separated her from their only exit, their only hope. Jude saw it in his face.

"GO!" She shouted to him. "I'm right behind you!" Falling back, she hugged tightly to the vertical beam as arrows whizzed by.

Soldiers continued to pour into the room. Bill steadied himself on the beam and made the window in few short strides. He ducked into the stone casing, protected for now. But when they figured out the plan, he would be an easy target.

"Come on!" Bill shouted at her fiercely.

Arrows hissed in all directions, fired from the corridor and from the floor. Jude inched out from behind her cover. The volleys became vicious. She ducked back, shaking her head at Bill. The soldiers concentrated their arrows on the space between them.

"Go on," Jude urged again. "Get the sword, damn it!"

"I'm not leaving you!" Bill stood his ground, soldiers coming closer to their targets.

Jude closed her eyes and swore at him. Her eyes snapped open and she fixed them on the glowing coals in the corner. With a quick incantation, she overturned the brazier, sending hot coals rolling across the floor, backing the soldiers into the doorway of the round room. They had no choice but to fire from the poor vantage point.

The arrow-fire had diminished from the ground, but it remained strong to her left, at the stairs. They could not get Bill from where they stood, not without exposing themselves further. So they concentrated their weapons on her. She couldn't stay there.

Think, she urged her mind. Think, or die.

About five feet of thin air separated the beam on which she stood from the one leading to the window. "Oh, God!" she breathed and threw herself into the space before she had time to think better of it. She landed hard enough on the beam that it knocked the wind from her. Her hands scrabbled at the wood and her feet kicked dead air. Arrows smacked into the stone wall behind her at a furious rate.

She could not hold on any longer. It was then that she felt fingers wrap around her wrists, pulling her. Bill grabbed her and before she had time to protest, or even to scream in sheer terror, he'd thrown them both from the window.

Jude coughed as they landed…hard. Bill let go of her and sat up, his eyes fixed on the window. He was on his feet in no time, and he was pulling her up the next instant. "Come on, Jude. We have to move!"

As the words left his lips a hail of arrows imbedded themselves in the thatch where they stood. Jude glanced around bewildered. The turf was brittle beneath her feet, and that was because it wasn't turf at all. She was standing on a roof, no more than five yards below the window…where guards now stood with bows and…

"Jude! Move!"

She looked at Bill as another volley of arrows sunk into the thatch at her feet. He threw himself over her, sending them rolling off the new, hay-smelling roof into the uncompleted chapel below.

They landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the scaffolding just under the roofline. An old thatcher blinked at them, mildly startled, frozen in the act of work. Then the arrows. The old man jumped up and skittered down the rough wooden ladder as fast as his feeble legs could transport him.

"Come on!" Bill grabbed her hand and pulled her after him into the depths of the chapel, darkness wrapping its arms around them once more. The ceiling was vast and grand. Rough bricks and crude mortar replaced the wooden scaffolding, forming arches, points and valleys, that would support itself. The wooden structure of the roof was hidden in this manner, but the bricks and mortar could only serve as a guise. Jude doubted that it could support their weight. And once again, she felt herself trapped.

Bill and Jude watched silently from the shadows as the guards looked around them, wary. Then they split up, two shimmying down the ladder, the other two testing the bricks beneath their feet.

"Now what?" Bill whispered.

Jude reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver chain. Her necklace, tangled around the little ball, the used portkey. She extracted the little ball and tossed it to the far side of the roof. It clinked off the stone several times before rolling into one of the many valleys. Jude held her breath as the guards peeled off in the direction of the sound, swords at the ready.

Fearing to make a sound, Bill and Jude crept with such caution toward the scaffold and their only escape that they forgot to move quickly. The burden of their weight was too much. The first snap and crack was like thunder. Jude sprang for the wood, hearing the deafening succession of cracks. The ceiling was caving in beneath them. She reached the wooden platform just as her right foot fell through the bricks. She scrabbled with all her might to hold herself up.

Glancing behind her, she could see the ceiling give way. Bill disappeared from her sight. She heard the huge crash and saw him land ten feet below on a stone carver's scaffold, a heaping pile of brick, mortar and brown cassock. She watched him get to his feet just as another snap tore her attention away.

Across the distance of the ceiling, the soldiers were running toward her, swords glinting malevolently in the low light. She struggled to pull herself up before it was too late. Then another snap! The ceiling caved beneath the weight of the soldiers. Jude watched the horrified faces of the soldiers as they paused, staring at their feet. The loud clatter of cracks followed and the soldiers disappeared. Jude looked toward the floor of the grand chapel. No scaffolding remained in place under the midsection of the roof. The soldiers had plummeted to their deaths.

Jude let go and landed cat-like next to Bill. He wrapped an arm around her and ushered her to the ladder. "I don't see the other guards," he said, glancing around the floor for the silver and green knights.

They turned a sharp corner, their feet pounding on the wood. Suddenly Jude stopped. "I've found them." She pointed to the middle of the scaffold where the guards were advancing cautiously, chastened by their comrades' demise. They cut off their retreat, the ladder well behind them. Swords were unsheathed menacingly, but they moved with extreme caution.

Bill and Jude immediately looked over the sides. It was too far to risk a jump. "We have to fight," Jude replied anxiously.

"With what?" Bill demanded.

Jude backed away from the advancing soldiers. "I don't know! We'll have to improvise! This is too delicate for magic…we could get stuck here."

"What!" he shouted. "Are you kidding?"

Jude continued to back away, her eyes fixed on the soldiers. "Do I look like I'm kidding? I've already endangered us by using indiscriminate magic, spells that are probably at least five hundred years ahead of this time. We have to think of something else…fast."

Bill and Jude retreated step by step, the length of the scaffolding. They carefully negotiated the corner and the pile of rubble from the ceiling. Jude looked over and she could see the wheels and gears, pulleys and ropes of building mechanisms. There were overworked mules powering large billows for a furnace closed off by a long stone wall, forming a multi-leveled room all on its own. The room was dark and guards stood motionless at the doors.

Jude frowned. Bill's eyes were fixed on the soldiers, but Jude was staring at the makeshift forge that didn't look makeshift at all. "My God!" she said in amazement. "This is no chapel! It's an armory!"

"Armory?" Bill repeated, never taking his eyes off of the men with swords and bloodlust in their eyes.

"Exactly!" Jude, still backing away from the men, pointed far below them. "See those soldiers, guarding that forge?"

Bill peeled his eyes away from their immediate threat at the word 'soldiers.' "Not really a concern right now, are they?"

"Odd," she mused. "They didn't move. Not once, not even when Tweedles Dee and Dum crashed through the ceiling!"

"So?" he asked absently.

"They are guarding something!"

"The sword!" they shouted together. As if they had the same mind, Bill and Jude turned and ran the remaining length of the scaffold. They heard the soldiers swear behind them and give chase. Their armor slowed them considerably.

Jude came to the end, gripping the rail tightly. "Do you think we can…" Jude began, but was cut off as a blade crunched into the wood just behind her. Bill had grabbed the first soldier's sword and swung it with all his might, embedding it deep. The soldier fought to dislodge it and the other advanced. Jude dodged the blow easily and landed a solid kick in the middle of the second soldier's chest, knocking him off balance. He teetered for a moment then tumbled over the side. Bill grabbed the shiny helmet of the soldier still fighting for his sword and twisted it until he felt the soldier go slack.

Jude hefted the blade and helped Bill to his feet. He lifted the other sword with little effort, taking her hand in the other before running back down the rickety planks. Jude trotted along behind him dragging her sword.

"Where are we going?" she asked, gasping. "Those soldiers won't let us by! They've probably seen us already!"  
"You're right," Bill admitted, still running. "They won't just let us in there. But I'll bet they haven't seen us." It was possible. They were on the other side of the great forge now. They could hear the blast and pounding of ironwork. "There!" Bill said suddenly, triumphantly. Jude followed the direction in which he had pointed and noticed a long line of monks all armed with buckets of water. On every face she saw the drudgery of forced labor, solemn yet unflinching. A curious duty for a monk.

And then it clicked. They were carting water from the river for their master, Brother Marcel. Bill tucked the sword under his robes, securing it tightly. Jude followed suit. They descended the ladder carefully and then ducked out of the chapel-armory to join the long line of monks.

Soldiers in green and silver paced up and down the line, supervising the holy work. Pulling the hoods over their heads, Bill and Jude joined silently, heading solemnly to the river. At the bank, still packed hard with frost, the river ran slow and languid, not yet gorged with spring's thaw. Jude looked up and beyond the river. It led off into the sloping hills, hidden by the great forest. Yet above that, Jude could just make out pennants clinging to cold towers on the horizon, flapping in the cheerless winter morning.

Silently Jude made her way back to the chapel, the weight of dread and the soldier's sword tugging her down. She could feel the eyes of every soldier boring into her; she kept her head down. The shadowy figure of the unfinished building hung over them, very close now. Jude felt it oppressively. Marcel was using his order to build an army…or at least to arm an army.

She ducked low as she entered, relieved only that Bill was close by. There was nothing else reassuring about this place. The monk in front of her turned the bucket of water over a long, angled trough that fed into the bowels of this puffing, belching dragon of a furnace. The guard watched blandly as he emptied the bucket into the trough and, to her surprise, looked around suspiciously before stalking off down a very narrow stone corridor. Jude emptied her bucket before dropping it to the ground, following the soldier in a sort of a daze.

"What are you doing?" Bill hissed next to her, dropping his bucket as well.

"That guard," she said, pausing, losing sight of him for a moment. "It's Lucius!"

With a cautious glance behind them, Jude and Bill left the long, apathetic line of servile monks and stepped into the shadows. They crept quietly up a winding wooden stair that seemed to rise forever into the darkness of the hulking stone building. Jude could hear the pounding of hammers and anvils below her in the forge proper, an arsenal being made for some sinister purpose. But what she sought was something a little more…specialized. And highly guarded, she noted as they came to the end of the stair.

She ducked back as she saw Lucius join a handful of knights in the exact colors he wore. His guise was accurate, right down to his boots. His was no hastily concocted plan. Voldemort had been forging this for some time. But it struck her as odd. Why Lucius Malfoy?

But it was apparent when he moved about the place. He belonged among them, he commanded respect among them…and he would kill them for something like this.

The small figure of the elf bent over the magnificent weapon, beads of sweat sprouting from his youthful brow. The blade glowed orange in the half-light and the elf pounded it once more, folding the steel into itself, creating a masterfully strong, precise weapon. Without looking up from his work, the elf reached out a hand to the guard. The men exchanged some rough, taunting words, jests at the little creature, but the elf had concentrated every ounce of energy on his magic.

The tiny figure gripped the jeweled vial and unstopped it with his teeth, regarding the rich, lavish ornamentation no more than he regarded the men around him. With care and precision, he let one drop and then another fall on the white-hot blade, cooling it little by little, tempering the steel from the hilt to the tip.

The men stared, slack-jawed with wonder at the elegant, deadly weapon he held in his hand. One man stepped forward. "Here, elf," he held out a massive hand, clothed in a thick leather gauntlet, "I will be havin' that from ye."

The elf looked up, his green eyes glinting with the fire from the furnace. He looked like no elf Jude had ever laid eyes on before and she guessed why. It was a leprechaun, captured for the sole purpose of creating this deadly assurance for Salazar Slytherin. His task was complete, his obligation fulfilled…against his very will. He knew it was the end. The man took the weapon roughly from his hand and smiled wickedly. "Many thanks, Master Elf," he laughed.

His laughing became a strangled cough and the other soldiers gasped. Blood poured from the man's throat. Lucius Malfoy had come up behind him, unseen, lodging a dagger in the man's jugular. Lucius let the man fall at his feet, deftly catching the sword before it hit the floor. A greedy glint illuminated his cold eyes.

"Who else dares to steal the sword of Slytherin?" he taunted. From the faces of the men that Jude could glimpse, it seemed they had read him all wrong, that he was a loyal servant of Slytherin who saw the greed in the hearts of his comrades and would die in the defense of his lord's property.

One man charged and then another. He dispatched them easily with his own sword, taking great care of the Eternal Blade. Every man was soon a heap of ragged armor and flesh. Calmly, he turned to the elf. "If you wish to prolong your days beyond this one, elf, change this weapon into the very image of this one."

"But, sire," the elf explained, "it took many seasons to make this sword."

Lucius put the point of his blade to the elf's throat. "I do not repeat myself."

The elf reached out and put his hand on the blade of the unremarkable sword. With a minimum of effort, the creature changed the look of the sword. It was an exact mirror of the one Lucius held so reverently. Exactly alike in looks only, for the property was very much what it had been, merely a weapon of destruction, not of life eternal.

He tossed the ordinary sword to the elf. "Give that to your master and you will yet live." He turned for the stairs. For an instant he froze, his cold eyes locking with hers. Jude drew her sword.

In one surge, Jude threw herself onto the final landing, the surprise exactly what she was hoping for. Lucius staggered backward, his eyes wide as if he'd seen a ghost. He drew his sword, but quickly sheathed it. He could not use the Eternal Blade. He clenched his dagger instead, still slick with the man's blood.

"Leaving so soon?" Jude asked coolly. "What's the rush, Lucius?" Her sword was leveled at his throat. She tried to think quickly. For she and Bill could not hope to escape with the sword _and_ leave Lucius unharmed.

She slashed downward viciously with her sword, forcing him to back away. It was quite a task to pretend that it took all her strength just to lift the oversized blade, and she was tiring. The glowing fire of the furnace caught her eye. She was formulating a plan, but in that barest moment of inattention, Lucius grabbed the sharp blade of the sword and spun her around. She held the hilt of the sword securely, but he held the blade against her throat in both of his hands, spots of blood appearing through his gloves. Her back was pressed against his chest and he was bringing the sword closer to her skin, despite her best efforts. Bill held his sword firmly but could not act.

"Throw it down!" Lucius bellowed.

"Don't, Bill!" Jude gasped, trying not to move. "He can't hold me like this forever. His hands, they're bleeding."

"Throw it down, or I'll do it. You know I will!"

Jude was trying desperately to find the hilt of the Eternal Blade, but her hand hit on something else. The poker! It was used to stoke the furnace fire! With the heel of her hand, Jude thrust the poker handle down, sending the white hot iron flying from the furnace, sending ash and embers and burning coals everywhere. Lucius screamed as they pelted him with a burning fury. He shoved Jude forward in an attempt to escape the heat. The sword clattered to the ground and she followed it. Lucius ran for the stairs as several spots in the room ignited in a furious flame.

Jude pushed herself up off of the ground, grabbing her sword. Bill blocked Lucius' escape, as well as his blow from the only weapon that remained to him. The Eternal Blade. Bill was driven back by each successive pounding blow, forced to give ground. Jude lashed out and sliced only air as the room erupted into flames around her. The elf grabbed the imposter sword and darted past the fray to the stairs.

The beams above their head ignited. The great stone building would soon be another great furnace, and they would be trapped. Bill wouldn't give up the fight, not yet. Lucius was tiring, cautious of the blade doing any real damage. The heat was intense.

Then a great beam came crashing down, splitting the room into two fiery halves. Lucius swung wildly, missing, but it mattered little—the way was clear for him and he made his escape leaving Jude and Bill to the inferno. The newly seasoned wood and the fresh thatch were catching all over the building. It wouldn't be long before the roof collapsed.

"Bill!" Jude screamed over the fire's roar. She held a hand over her eyes, trying to peer through the thick smoke and the intense heat. And then she saw him. He was lying next to the great beam. He was not moving. She tried to pull him to his feet, but he was too heavy.

She looked around, helpless, the heat stinging her eyes. Next to her was a bucket. No use, there was only about three inches of water in it. She would need the entire river to stop this hellish blaze. And then she grabbed the bucket. She threw the contents on Bill's face. He coughed and came around, his eyes wide, reflecting the flames all around them.

"Bill! We have to go!" She helped him to his feet and they negotiated the fire-eaten stairs together, emerging from the screaming inferno just moments before the great thatched roof fell it with a dragon's roar.

She supported Bill as much as she could, but he seemed to be surer on his feet now. They coughed and sputtered in the smoke-filled morning, heading as quickly as they could away from the chaos and the burning chapel.

"Bill," she said, gasping for breath, attempting to blink the smoke out of her eyes, "Lucius is getting away with the sword!" She pointed toward the forest. A lone soldier was fleeing.

Bill regarded him wearily. "Let's go. If he reaches that forest before us, we're done. He's gone."

Jude nodded, running with all she had left for the woods. Bill was right on her heels. She knew, like them, Lucius would need the cover of the woods to jump forward again in time. They were closing the distance easily. Jude frowned. Lucius _must_ have been injured in the blaze.

But he reached the forest regardless. And although the tree cover was thin and skeletal, they soon lost sight of him. Still they plunged head-first into the river of trees, crashing through the underbrush, searching desperately. Bill advanced in front of her, outstripping her easily. Her lungs burned with the crisp wintry air as she fought to keep up.

Jude broke through a thick cluster of trees, following Bill, but she stopped suddenly. Her eyes were wide. An arrow had just lodged itself in the trunk of a broad oak, missing her face by millimeters. But she understood: it wasn't a miss, it was a warning.

Slowly, she turned and found herself facing two men on horseback. She couldn't breathe as she stared down the point of an arrow trained on her. The man holding the bow stared at her with a hard ferocity. She swore. So much for not being seen by natives, but then she'd lost that advantage when Salazar Slytherin and Brother Marcel spotted them in the monastery. She glanced from the horseman with the bow to Bill who stood motionless, his eyes begging her not to move. It was a short distance between where she stood and Bill. She wondered how good the bowman was. The arrow in the tree suggested that he was outstanding.

The man clenching the bow regarded her smoothly, an undercurrent of venom. It was like watching a running stream under a layer of ice. He was handsome with strong, dark features, and from the looks of it she was simply no match, running or fighting. She dropped her sword and all hope of jumping to the future. She wouldn't dream of leaving Bill. Perhaps she could throw him the timeturner…

"What say you, Mungo," the dark man asked his companion, arrow still trained on her heart, "Good monk or bad monk?"

"Mungo," Jude breathed, stunned, "Mungo Hufflepuff?"

The young monk looked bewildered from the youth at arrow's point to his companion. "As you see. What business have you skulking about on Ravenclaw lands?"

Jude was fascinated. "And who are you?" she demanded of the knight.

"The angel of death," the dark one replied, tightening his bowstring, "at your service."

Mungo reached over and patted his friend on the arm. "Galahad, cannot you see they mean us no harm."

"Account for yourself, lad. And your companion, or mine with be the last face you ever see," Galahad demanded.

"Ravenclaw! Bill, can you believe this?" Jude called to him. Bill seemed just as lost for words.

"Answer, fool!" He spurred his enormous steed forward and came within point-blank range. Jude swallowed.

"Lower your weapon, Galahad, for goodness sake," Mungo urged. "What is your name, lad?" he asked in a kindlier tone than his companion had.

She frowned, surmising that it be best not to correct that error. Her name was ambiguous enough. "Jude," she said evenly. "And this is…William."

"We were pursuing a soldier of Slytherin and we lost him in the woods. He…he stole something from the monastery," Bill explained.

Mungo nodded to the frantic activity just beyond the rise. "You see, it burns," he said sadly, crossing himself.

Jude and Bill exchanged anxious glances. "If it makes you feel any better, that chapel was not built for…er…holy purposes, shall we say."

Galahad frowned, lowering his bow. "What purposes, then lad?"

"Marcel and Salazar Slytherin were manufacturing arms," Jude explained. "He is building an army, not a church."

Mungo and Galahad exchanged a wordless look. It was Mungo who spoke next. "It is dangerous to remain in these woods. You must come back to our lady's house."

Jude shook her head adamantly no. "We really must find him, the soldier I spoke of. It is really of the utmost importance."  
Galahad regarded her blandly. "He is long gone by now." He threw his bow over his shoulder and reached a hand out for her. "Come, you are wounded." He beckoned her, frowning, not understanding their delay.

She put a hand to her throat and her fingers came away slick and red. She looked worriedly at Bill. His head was bleeding freely, a gash at his hairline and he looked as if he did seem a bit dazed.

"But we haven't the time…" Jude said, her hand covering the cut on her neck.

Galahad gave her an impatient glare. "You are a rude and impertinent young man! Come!"

She looked anxiously at Bill and then gave her hand to the dark rider. He pulled her easily into the saddle behind him. "You know, you're rather rude and impertinent yourself!"  
Mungo laughed as he helped Bill onto his own weary steed. They turned in the direction of the towers on the horizon.

The castle of the Lady Ravenclaw was little more than a walled keep on a manmade island a good distance off the shore of the loch, the source of the river that snaked by the burning monastery. The hooves of the horses clattered over the planks of the long bridge. The wide gate opened to admit its lord and his companions without challenge. They entered a stone gatehouse and then a narrow courtyard. Galahad brought his horse to heel and helped Jude climb down the back of the large animal. He dismounted easily.

Jude hurried to help Bill down. He was pale and unsteady on his feet. Mungo leapt lightly from the saddle and slapped Bill on the back heartily. "Come, my brother. We will have you feeling better in no time at all." Mungo led Jude and Bill into an expansive and warm hall. Galahad handed his horse off to a lad and followed directly.

Mungo helped Bill to sit on a low wooden bench and began to examine his head. He groaned as Mungo prodded his scalp. Jude hovered anxiously.

"Will he be all right?" she asked.

Mungo nodded and put his hand to the man's head, closing his eyes in concentration. She watched Bill relax under the expert healer's hands. Jude turned and came face to face with the dark and brooding figure of Galahad. "We were in the fire," she said nervously as he nodded minutely, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "He got clocked pretty good."

Galahad cocked his head curiously to the side. "I must say, it is a strange dialect you speak. Where are you from?" He ushered her over to the table and sat her down. He stood next to her, waiting for an explanation. She looked at Bill and said the first thing that popped into her head. "Scotland."

Galahad frowned but nodded. "Did you hear, Mungo? Scottish. They are your kind. "

Mungo frowned as well, but remained concentrated on his work. He was helping Bill out of the rough monk's cowl, prodding his swollen shoulder now.

Galahad returned his piercing glare to her and lifted her chin with one gloved finger. "A good wound you have here, soldier of Scotland." He removed his gloves as a servant brought in a soft cloth and plenty of hot water. He took the cloth, soaked it and wrung it out. He put a hand behind her head and held the clean cloth to her neck. She winced, but it was a welcome feeling and she relaxed under his gentle grip. She closed her eyes and sighed, turning her thoughts to how the hell she was going to explain this to Dumbledore.

She felt a tug at the collar of her rob and her eyes shot open instantly.

"Take your robe off and I shall see to the cut on your arm." He dipped the bloodied cloth into the water once more. "I am no healer like Mungo, but I am no stranger to blood." He paused, the cloth half way between them. "Come on, now. Leave the modesty for the ladies, lad. Off with it."

Bill laughed and Mungo stared at him as if he were mad. Jude froze, her hand clutching the neck of her robe, an embarrassed smile plastered on her nervous face. "No, my lord. It is just a scratch. Not necessary at all, I thank you."

"My son," came a pleasant, musical voice from the door. A beautiful woman stood in the golden light of the midday. As she entered, Jude noted the raven hair, streaked with silver. It was Lady Rowena Ravenclaw and the very picture of her handsome son. And just as she was but a few paces from Jude, she stopped, stunned. "The woman…from my dream. Helga revealed about her…" She quickly crossed the rest of the distance and knelt in front of Jude, taking her face in her hands. "It is the very one!"

"Woman!" Galahad choked. His regal face turned many shades of scarlet as he baulked. "A thousand apologies," he murmured, bowing and retreating as fast as he could from the hall. Mungo understood the jest and laughed merrily at his friend.

"My lady," Jude breathed, astonished. "You know my face, but I have never seen yours. How…how is that possible?"

"Verily, I do," the elegant woman said, turning to the servant. "Fetch Lady Hufflepuff this instant." The servant left almost as quickly as Galahad did. "In a dream, I saw you, child." Lady Ravenclaw shook her head slowly. "But it is not I who have the sight. You must speak to Helga, child."

Mungo and Bill fell silent and were listening in amazement. "This is her, the one my mother spoke of?" Mungo asked, astonished.

Rowena turned to Mungo and nodded.

Mungo smiled knowingly. "Then you are neither monks nor soldiers."

Jude shook her head. "I don't understand." She was growing frightened. She looked for Bill. He met her look with much confusion in his honest face.

"A great burden is laid on your shoulders, my child," Rowena was explaining as Helga swept into the room, as bright and as radiant as the sun. She had the same amber hair as her son and the same gentle spirit. Galahad accompanied her, but he remained in the doorway, brooding, casting dark and fitful glances at the strangers.

"Dear me," Helga exclaimed. "You were not mistaken, Rowena." She stared into the face of the bewildered girl for the longest moment. "You came to find the sword of Slytherin, did you not?"

"How did you…" Jude began.

"You did not succeed," Helga surmised. "I feared…"

Jude shook her head. "No, my lady."

Helga patted her shoulder. "It was foreseen. Do not feel too terribly."

"But all is lost," Jude whispered, burying her face in her hands. Bill moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm comforting around her.

"All of this was for nothing, then?" Bill scowled at Helga.

Rowena placed a long finger under Jude's chin, lifting it to look on her face. "It is not lost until you give up the fight." She turned to Bill, "And bravery in the face of great danger is never for naught."

"You are saved from _your_ enemy," Jude said. "But _my_ enemy wins."

Rowena held her stare with electrifying stillness. "Our enemies are as much a part of us as we are a part of them. They are our weakness and we are theirs. Remember yourself, child. Our enemies make us, but they cannot destroy us, only we consent to that."

"Judas," Helga spoke as if from nowhere, "will resurrect his Lord. We have seen this come to pass."

Jude frowned. "What? What did you say?"

Helga looked from the girl to Rowena. "They have had a long day, my lady. We should let them rest."

Jude clasped her hand. "What did you say?" she asked the woman with the golden hair once more.

"I said nothing, my dear," she answered with a smile. The Lady Hufflepuff was sincere.

"Rest now," Rowena suggested.

But Jude stood to her feet. "I thank you, but we must go." She brushed past the women and headed for the door. Galahad glared intently at her, but let her pass.

Helga put a hand to her mouth. "Was it something I said?"

Jude blinked in the sunlight, then turned and looked for Bill. "It is late in the afternoon. We must go."

Galahad looked at the sky. "It is just after noon, lady."

She shook her head, reaching for Bill's hand. She nodded to the ladies. "Thank you for your graciousness. Mungo," she added smiling meekly at the monk, "I thank you for your kind attentions to my friend."

"Think not on it," he said, frowning at her sudden eagerness to leave. "But he must rest, as should you…"

"We _must_ get back to the woods," Jude said frantically. "We must leave here."

Galahad summoned the page with his horse. "Peace, lady. We will take you."

A moment later, they were galloping over the fields as they had come, heading for the dense but leafless forest. In the very clearing where they met, Galahad's arrow still piercing the tree, Mungo helped Bill off his horse, cautioning him against further injury. Galahad handed Jude down with more care than before.

Just as she was about to turn away, he placed his broad, gloved hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me once again, lady," he said sincerely, "for I thought you were a soldier."

She placed a hand on top of his. "I am a soldier."

He nodded as one man of arms to another. "Then Godspeed, my friend."

She returned his nod. "Ditto," she said with a smile. She watched them wheel their horses expertly and tear off up the hill. When they were gone, she turned back to Bill. "Let's go home," she sighed wearily, wrapping her arms around him and pulling the chain from her robes. With a flash, they opened their eyes to the sunny forest in Ireland, the same forest they had been in over a thousand years ago. Reaching into her pocket, she reached for her necklace. "Domi," she said quietly and felt the queasy tug at her navel.

Bill looked around him. The light shone dimly through the drawn curtains, the dark wood and the spectral quiet stunned him. "Where are we? It's quite…creepy."

She looked around at the empty study. "Creepy, but safe." She pulled him over to the sofa in front of the cold fireplace. They sat down together. "Let's not go back just yet," she begged, snuggling into his rough monk's robes. "I don't think I can explain just yet."

He nodded, his chin against her head. "Jude?" he asked suddenly, knowing that she had already closed her eyes.

"Hmm?"

He frowned, his head throbbing. "What do you suppose happened to them? The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws?"

She closed her eyes again. "It's history, Bill. They met their fate."

Resting his chin on her forehead, he stared into the black, cold grate of the hearth. "And what do you suppose will happen to us?"

At first she didn't answer. He felt his heavy eyelids close just as she spoke in a sleepy half-whisper. "I guess we'll meet ours."

Author's Note: Thanks for the thoughtful reviews! They really helped to shape this chapter and the advice was gladly incorporated.

Guest Appearances: Galahad Ravenclaw as himself—warrior, poet and all-around chivalric knight of _The Unsung Past_ by Tajuki. Mungo Hufflepuff as himself—a Dominican monk, healer and best friend of Galahad Ravenclaw; co-star of _The Unsung Past._ For truly riveting, thought-provoking Founders literature, check out Tajuki's tale of friendship and betrayal, _The Unsung Past._


	61. The Eternal Blade

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury, Raincoast Books, Scholastic and Warner Bros. All original material is the property of the author. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Chapter Sixty-One: The Eternal Blade

_'Pacific sun,_

_You should have told us_

_These heights are dizzying_

_And the climb can kill you_

_Long before the fall_

_And our trail goes unmarked _

_And unmapped_

_And covered just as soon as they are crossed_…'

_"Several Ways To Die Trying," Dashboard Confessional_

Jude stood up. With a long overdue stretch, she felt what the day's toil had cost her weary body. Things were already hard enough without her feet feeling like lead. And without him looking like that. Peaceful, like a baby. She put her lips gently to his warm forehead for the barest moment. Then she forced herself to move before the ink on the brief note was even dry.

She closed her eyes to force herself not to look back and she headed for the door. There should have been more, he deserved more…but…

In one moment, she hesitated and her steel eyes stole away to his serene face. She felt the tug and it almost overwhelmed her. He would be better off without her, they all would. This she repeated to herself as she gently closed the door behind her. If he knew what she now knew…

Turning from the closed door, she almost leapt out of her skin in fright. She was face to face with a shadowy, silent figure. He made no move as her shoulders sunk in relief and spent anxiety, her wildly beating heart returning slowly to normal. "You startled me," she said quietly.

Professor Snape stared evenly at her for what seemed an eternity. "Where have you been?"

Jude cast a cautious glance at the door behind her and moved away from it, stepping into the cold light of the corridor. She closed her eyes and tried to put her thoughts, or excuses, in order. "Do you really want to know about me? Where I've been? Or do you want to know about the sword?"

"Come, Jude," he answered plainly. "Enough theatrics. I see you are alive and well. But you did not return to the school as I supposed you would."

Jude rubbed her neck, wincing at the sting. "I had no reason to rush back to Hogwarts."

There was barely a change in his cold expression. "You did not succeed then." It seemed quite obvious to him. It _was_ obvious.

"I failed," she confirmed bluntly. "Lucius Malfoy got away with the blade."

Snape passed a hand wearily over his eyes. "I should have gone myself," he hissed.

"Perhaps you should have!" she spat. "Christ, since when did you become the paragon of perfection? I tried, all right? And I would have done just about everything to win…you know I would have. But I would not have traded his life for that sword, damn it!" She nodded toward the door behind her.

He shook his head. "This is war, Jude! You should have done everything to get that sword!" He looked away from her, anger bubbling just beyond the surface as he paced in front of her. "Don't you understand that you've killed us all?"

"Why don't you go back and fix it?" she snarled. "Just pop back and snatch the sword if it was just that simple."

He scowled. "You know I can't…it doesn't work that way. It was our one chance."

Jude opened her mouth to reply but spun around at the sound of the door behind her, all words forgotten at the sight of him and the look on his face. Bill stood in front of her with such an astonished, wounded look on his face, her quickly scrawled note in his hand.

"You're leaving me, Jude?" he asked, bewildered.

She turned frantically from Bill to Snape.

"Perfect," the professor spat. "You muck something up and run away. Isn't that just typical."

"Look," she shouted. "It isn't what you think, okay?"

"What is it?" Bill asked, begged her.

Jude took a deep breath. "I can't explain everything…"

Professor Snape gave a short derisive grunt of laughter. "Oh, you'll explain everything." He reached out and quickly grabbed her by the arm. In the next instant she and Snape were gone. Bill frowned, now abandoned in a strange corridor.

"Will _someone_ just explain?" Bill asked plaintively. He looked at the note again, crumpled in his fist. Then he followed too.

"Will you _let go of me_!" Jude wrenched her arm from his grasp. She glared at him fiercely, more piercingly than broken glass. "I'm not a child anymore. You can't treat me like this!" Her attention was riveted on Professor Snape.

"And my choice is _what_?" he asked her angrily. "To just _let_ you go running off without even knowing why? That is so bloody irresponsible of you, Jude. What a petulant little brat you've always been. At the first sign of trouble you go dashing off! But what you don't seem to realize was that it always brought more trouble. Especially for me!"

Jude scowled. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh come off it! Every time you messed things up you took off. And I was such a fool." He shook his head disbelievingly. "I always followed. I was always there to pick up the pieces. Well, I'm tired of it! If you walk out of here tonight, you walk out alone. You are not my problem any longer!"

"Your problem?" Jude baulked. "Was that all I was?" Her throat felt tight, like she couldn't breathe. "Silly me! Here I thought you actually gave a damn…but apparently I was wrong. Well, professor, I am terribly sorry to have ever been such a burden to you." She turned on her heels and walked away quickly.

"You know very well that's not what I meant." He moved quickly to keep pace with her, to stop her. "And still you're running!" he shouted after her.

"Running from what?"

Jude stopped dead in her tracks just as she was turning a corner. Dumbledore had suddenly appeared in front of her. She gasped with fright. "Why does everyone keep doing that to me?"

"What are you running from, my dear?" Dumbledore asked again. "And what is the cause of this disturbance?"

Snape drew up just behind her. "Consequences, Headmaster," he explained. "The mission failed."

Dumbledore nodded his head slowly. "Well then," he said softly, holding her anxious stare. "It was all that I could ask of you."

Jude frowned. "That's all?" She studied the old man's lined, weary face.

"That is all," he said, stepping past her. "I could caution you, beg you not to leave these walls. But I understand that you would not listen."

"But," Jude began, "you have no idea…"

He held her stare evenly, searchingly. She wanted to look away but she could not. How could he know…he didn't know…did he?

"Jude!" She groaned inwardly, closing her eyes in disbelief. Turning, she saw Bill standing in the dim light of the corridor looking as stricken as when she left. "It's not because of what Lady Helga said, was it?"

Jude pressed her hand to her forehead. "Jeez, Bill!"

Everyone was staring at Bill expectantly, except for Jude. She stood with her eyes closed, hoping that when she opened them, this whole nightmare would be gone.

"Lady Helga _Hufflepuff_? Jude, what is going _on_ here?" Snape demanded.

Jude was glaring at the floor, silent as the grave.

"It's a long story, but there was something a bit…strange." Bill soldiered on, staring at her as if dazed. "The Lady said she saw her in a vision…or a dream…then she said something crazy about Judas or, I don't know. But what was weird was that she didn't recall saying it only seconds later."

Dumbledore and Professor Snape exchanged a glance that communicated volumes. Jude cringed, her face in her hand, pressing her fingers into her eyes until she saw spots. This wasn't happening.

She froze when she felt the hand on her shoulder. It made her jump. "Get away from me!" she screamed. When she looked up, she was staring into the fathomless eyes of Dumbledore. In the next instant she almost blurted out an apology, it felt so compulsory. Instead she backed away from all three of them. Her breathing was heavy and the corridor felt so tight. She had to get away.

"It's not true," Bill said finally with a laugh. "Jude, come on. It couldn't possibly be! She was wrong!"

Her eyes remained locked with the Headmaster's. "Is that what you think?" she asked the old man.

He remained steady. "I know you think you will help us by getting as far away from us as you can, my dear. But trust me, it is the worst thing you could do right now."

Jude's expression became intensely pained. "Is that what you _think_? That I would _betray_ you?"

"Jude, that's not what he…" Snape began, but her shouts drowned him out.

"I can't believe it! What does it _take_ to _prove_ to you?"

"Stay," Dumbledore said simply.

She swallowed hard. It seemed ages before she could trust herself to speak. "I wouldn't dare stay! You just said yourself that you don't trust me. That you think I could turn on you!" In an instant, Jude turned on her heels and moved for the door.

"I can't let you," Snape shouted.

She rounded on him just as she reached the large doors and the world beyond. "You will!" She raised her hand toward him and he paused. "For you have no choice." She looked from Bill's ashen, agonized face to Dumbledore's clouded and enigmatic expression. Glancing lastly at her former professor, narrowing her eyes harshly, she added, "I'm not your problem anymore." And she swept out of the castle.

Bill stared after her for a long, electrified moment. He glanced from the professor to the headmaster, dumbfounded. "This is bad, right? I mean, shouldn't someone go get her?"

Dumbledore turned to look long and hard at Bill. "This is indeed very bad, Mr. Weasley. But we cannot make her stay."

He frowned. "What's going to happen, Headmaster?" Bill asked. "Will she be all right?"

Snape scowled. "I believe the more pressing question is whether _we_ will be all right." He held the headmaster's weary gaze. "Not only does Voldemort have the sword by now…he has his guarantee." The strain showed visibly as the professor turned and stalked off down the corridor. It was in his stooped shoulders and his more than usual sullenness. Dumbledore began to follow, beckoning Bill to follow him. Bill obeyed without hesitation.

"Come, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore called to him. "We have much to explain and much more to discuss."

Bill looked back over his shoulder at the door where he last saw her. "Perhaps I should go…"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "She is beyond our help now…or she very soon will be." He noted the effect his words had on the young man. He looked horrified. "Oh, it's not all that bad, my boy," he added cheerily. "We have nothing to fear for her any longer. Jude walked into her fate with both eyes open. She will do what is necessary. For I still have faith in her. As I have faith in you," he confided. "And _I_ will need your help now."

The haze and fog of the winter night in London cast diaphanous halos over every source of light, like the set of some film noir. Instinctively she stayed in the shadows, huddling close to the sooty facades of the dreary city. She walked slowly but with purpose, not knowing where to go but feeling drawn all the same. So she followed them, creatures of the night to the pulse of the place where they all forgot. They forgot the fight they had that day, they forgot that they were fired and couldn't pay the rent on the flat or, in her case, forgot the world just tumbled down around them. For the first time in a long time she had walked out into the cold night so utterly alone.

So she followed them—the dispossessed, the struggling, the addicted, the lonely—to find whatever solace there was to be found in the hard bosom of cold mother London, where the erratic heartbeat of the discotheque was enough to drown the words echoing in her ears. The lights harsh, the liquor harsher, this was the forgetting place. And for the first time in a long time, she was offered peace.

It was sometime during the indiscrete hours of the morning, the deepest dark of the night, that she noticed him staring. Among the young heeding London's calling, he seemed to be the youngest son—a wraith of a blond boy with dark eyes sporting darker circles, his black t-shirt hanging as if from a pole. He smiled at her, a smile so full of pain and promise, yet so hollow…She turned her back and moved away from the bar. When she turned that way again, he was gone.

She drank and waited. Waited for something, some oblivion to swallow her, to make the shouting and the anger stop, she wanted the voices silenced. She ran her hand through her limp hair, her head pounding pleasantly to the deafening music. When she opened her eyes again, he was there.

Jude sat up, her eyes wide, surprised. He was smiling, the hollow and intoxicating smile.

The young man seemed unsure as he stood in front of her. "Hullo," he offered, a thin, spidery hand crawling nervously to his neck. It seemed he was unable to be still. She watched him suspiciously for a moment and then cast her eyes in another direction, bored.

"Look," she said in a dull ambivalence, "I didn't come here to baby-sit, love."

He gave one nervous huff of laughter, his hand still crawling over his neck, the other clutching the cloth of his jeans pocket spastically. "Right," he laughed self-consciously. "That's a good one." Almost as an afterthought, he gave her a chummy shove on the shoulder.

At that she spun around to face him fully. "I said bugger off. And I do hate to repeat myself."

Another giggle from the boy and he held up both hands in benign protest. "No harm," he said, smiling and shrugging. He shoved his hand back in his pocket and the other spider-like hand was run anxiously through his blond hair. "It's just, well…you look like you could use a bit of unwinding, that's all."

Her angry expression softened just slightly. "You have no idea." She raised her glass to her lips. "Now take my advice. You're cute and I don't want to have to hurt you."

Sheepishly he turned to walk away. But then, curiously, he stopped. "It's not working, is it?"

Jude frowned. "Becoming angry again," she warned.

He smiled that sly, hollow, knowing grin. "I don't mean to pry…" he chuckled, his expression archly amused.

"Then don't," she advised thinly.

Finally he couldn't contain his laughter. "Vodka, gin…really?" He was biting his lip and laughing at her, almost a disbelieving, mocking laughter.

Jude scowled. "You're asking for it, kid."

"No," the young man said, "you are." He crossed his arms over his gaunt chest and his eyes seemed piercing. "I could hear you across the room, bird. You're begging, you're screaming for help. And guess what?" The nervous, twitching boy shoved his hands back into his pockets and shrugged. "I can help you."

Jude stared into her glass. "What?" she asked dully.

The boy leaned close, very close. "I can take away the pain." The whispered words drowned out the crowd.

She stared, dazed. "How?"

He grabbed her hand and that smile again…she followed. "Come. I'll show you."

"Hold on. I don't understand." Bill paced in front of his former headmaster, confusion painting his every movement. "You make it sound as if the world is going to end."

Dumbledore sighed. "Not to put too fine a point on it." The headmaster seemed so lost in thought that he might not find his way back. "It is not merely a dark time for us. It will be our darkest time."

Bill stared at him hard. "And Jude, how is she involved in all this?"

Professor Snape narrowed his dark eyes sharply. "Well that remains to be seen. But if I had to guess, I'd say we found our traitor…our Judas."

Dumbledore watched as Bill's face registered shock. "I've had suspicions for some time, Mr. Weasley. There are facts that I cannot ignore. Jude has betrayed Lord Voldemort on at least one occasion, and I must admit a certain curiosity concerning her name."

"Pretty sparse evidence, don't you think?" Bill questioned edgily.

The old man watched him for moments. "Yes, I agree. Flimsy at best. But then there's the reckless, if not irrational, desire to throw herself in the Dark Lord's path."  
"What?" Bill was astounded. "You think she _meant _to put herself in jeopardy all of those times?"

Dumbledore was steady. "I do." He removed the half-moon spectacles from his nose and focused deeply on his aged hands. "A fact that her departure tonight has confirmed."

Bill was shaking his head adamantly. "Don't you understand?" he returned. "She didn't _want_ to leave. She _had_ to leave. I didn't want to believe her when she told me that no one here trusted her anymore. This place was torturing her, _we _were torturing her." Running his hand wearily over his face, he finally returned his glance to the headmaster. "I see that now."

"Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore answered sternly. "We never demanded anything of her. Often we relied on her, as friends are forced to rely on friends. It was not our mistrust or demands that turned her so against us"

"No?" Bill cut in sharply.

"No," Dumbledore rejoined. "Her rage has been building ever since she was a child, her guilt, a burden too heavy for anyone her age has slowly turned to poison, Mr. Weasley." The headmaster returned his glasses to his careworn face. "For as long as I have known her, Jude Elliot has been ruled by another person—her mind is not entirely her own."

"What are you saying, Headmaster?"

The old man took a deep breath. "Tom Riddle is as much a part of Jude as he is Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore continued solemnly. "And you and I can no longer help her. She is beyond us now. And she will destroy us, destroy the world that she truly loved."

Bill blinked, shell-shocked. "You want me to kill her?"

"I want to caution you against sentiment," Dumbledore amended. "Both of you," he said sharply, turning from Bill to Professor Snape. "Jude Elliot is dead. Lord Voldemort remains."

"You'll only feel a tiny prick and then…heaven," said the skeletal specter of the blond boy. "Trust me."

She closed her eyes tightly at first and then relaxed. When she opened her eyes the dark corner of the pulsing club had vanished. Everything and everyone had vanished. She closed her eyes again. The boy was right, this was heaven. A forgetful paradise she never wanted to leave. It was this that she had needed, had longed for ever since the pain had started and slowly consumed her. What was guilt now? What was hurt? There was nothing and all was nothing to her.

She smiled. Whatever this was, it was way better than any magic she could ever conjure. It was a barrier that not even the worst memory could penetrate. The only thing that could was…the boy…the blond boy was laughing now…but…she didn't care…not…even…a …bit…

A name. He was writhing on the ground next to her, laughing without any restraint. He said it again and again and again. Over and over and…still laughing. "Rhys," the boy said, serious now and then dissolving into another fit. "Who's Rhys?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. It felt like drowning, and being saved all at the same time. An utter confusion of her mind. She wanted so bad to shut it out, to block out his face and to forget him. But she couldn't let it go. Couldn't let him go. Didn't want to let him go…

"What is this?" she asked between gasps of breath.

The boy's mood had changed suddenly from uncontrolled hysterics to a lethargy so intense he hardly moved. She had to strain to make out the words. "Jus' relax…ride it."

Jude looked around at the throbbing sad mass of humanity, panicking. She couldn't recall where she was, her head aching from the lights, music, and drugs. "I can't breathe," she gasped and grabbed for the boy.

He glanced at her from half-closed eyes and smiled listlessly. "Easy, baby. It's intense the first time…and the second…and the…"

As he babbled, Jude forced herself to calm down and clamored clumsily to her feet. She took boy's hand and pulled him up as well. The world spun dizzily and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the grimy wall.

The boy raised a hand lazily to her face and let his fingers wander through her hair. "See," he said mistily, "it's all better now, huh?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. Everything was fine, she felt good and again she felt forgetfully calm. The shaky moments passed and she felt very much in control, smug even. She smiled. "Much better, thanks," she admitted coolly. "Sorry I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't say," he said, grinning at her. "But I know yours. It's Jude," he said triumphantly.

Jude stared at the grinning boy with mild interest and then allowed her eyes to wander the room. It didn't take long for her to spot him. In fact it was about as difficult as finding a tiger amidst a tangle of alley cats. His stare was electric and it did not waver. Reluctantly she returned her glazed stare to the boy and smiled. "I hope you know what you got yourself into."

His grin faltered slightly. Jude took an unsteady step towards the tiger without any of the natural caution. Lucius Malfoy, so sleek among so many disheveled slobs, spread a satisfied, sinister smile as the prey approached. The young man tagged along like a dumb puppy he noted with bare disdain.

"I was wondering when you'd turn up," she said over the music. "Can't say I'm surprised, however—you're like a bad penny."

"Bad is rather euphemistic, don't you think," he countered smoothly.

"Oy!" The boy shouted above the music and poked a lazy finger into the immaculate figure. Lucius eyes regarded the boy like a loathsome insect. "You still owe me fifty quid."

The next instant the boy was face down on the floor, dead among the barely living. Jude glanced down at him, pitying him, for no one else would even give him that much consideration. One of the numerous casualties that passed through this throbbing tomb. She turned away, looking steadily at Lucius.

"Not necessary but makes a statement," she said calmly.

Lucius stood, straightening the fine cloth of his robes and gestured toward the door. "Shall we?"

Jude regarded him evenly. "Over my…"

"Dead body," he finished for her, nodding impatiently. "Too right you are. But now is not the time for that." He raised his wand before she even had a chance to focus on it. He caught her before she hit the floor and they vanished from the dark heat of the club without drawing any notice from the oblivious crowd.

_The cracked red rocks beneath her feet turned cold. The wind still howled and she could feel the crimson dust scratching her face, the rush of the river deafening to her right. A hot tear stung her cheeks as she forced her eyes open. Her pulse froze. _

_ The river still raged through the harsh landscape. But the world had hardened under a crystal layer of ice and snow. The blood red sunset had no power to melt the razor sharp ice that scraped at her bare feet. Jude shivered under the inadequate cloth as she choked on a deep gasp, the sort of convulsive intake of breath that happens when the body is suddenly submerged in icy water, the cold penetrating every part. She could not blink as she realized the shuddering came not only from cold, but from fear. _

_ Before her stretched the ice and snow covered field of some finished battle. Bodies lie face down as the white sheets of snow crept slowly over them. Spots of red reflected the deep red of the unforgiving sunset. _

_ She turned away, feeling herself retch at the carnage. Another tight and suffocating gasp stifled her scream of frustration and terror. The river raged at the icy bank before her, climbing in high peaks of angry water, running fast…too fast. Jude tore her frightened stare from the torrent, fixing it on the opposite bank, fearing and expecting to see it again. It was there, shrouded partially from view by a thin, taunting mist, the revelation just beyond her understanding. _

_ "Who are you?" she screamed finally, a gesture so fraught with futility and frustration. "What do you want from me?"_

"I am your Master," was the low, rasping reply. "And I want everything you have to give."

Jude shot up straight, her eyes wide, bulging in terror. To her surprise she found herself sitting on a cold, hard marble floor in the middle of a grand hall, hundreds upon thousands of dancing candle flames painting the walls a honey hue, belying the truly harsh and austere feeling she took from it. A few seconds had passed before she saw Him, seated at the end of the hall, His brimstone eyes set on her.

The frigid horror she felt in the pit of her stomach gave way to a chilling calm. This feeling was far from new to her. She had faced her Master's wrath before and lived. The sight of His state even gave her a small dose of confidence, enough at least to steel her nerves so she could pick herself up off the floor. Jude swallowed hard, studying the bent and shriveled figure of Lord Voldemort, shrouded in darkness and far from her scrutinizing stare.

She was still, casting her eyes around the room, feeling for a weakness somewhere in this strange place as she felt the heat of the hellfire eyes consume every detail of her. "I have no Master," she replied finally. "And I have nothing to give to You."

The bent figure emitted a hollow laugh. "Your very being belongs to me, child. I made you. I will break you if I see fit."

Jude felt the dull growth of anger within her. "You could try." She took a defiant step forward. "But by the looks of You, I doubt You would succeed."

It wheezed another laugh. "Your arrogance…It reminds Me of someone…"

"Why am I here?" she demanded loudly, her voice echoing off the walls and splitting her head painfully. "I doubt You went to all the trouble just to lecture me on respecting my elders."

"I want something, of course," He hissed, a sinister sound that made her shiver.

Jude controlled her fear with cool command. "A recruitment pitch? You brought me all the way here, wherever the hell here is, just to corral me back into the fold?" A sneer crept upon her lips. "If that is what You really want, _Master_, I'll do You one better." She took a deep breath and another step closer. "I'll join You," she said, a numb feeling taking over as she said the words she'd never have thought she would utter. "On one condition, of course."

"Of course," Voldemort hissed, leaning forward. "There is always one."

She held His piercing glare steadily, surprised at how easily it was done, crossing the point of no return. "I will join You if," she offered calmly, "You give me Peter Pettigrew."

Voldemort watched her as intently as a vulture. "I cannot say that I am surprised. I could feel your anger across a continent"

"I'll do anything," she repeated sternly. "Just give me the rat. And I'll give You loyalty…beyond question."

The Dark Lord was silent, watching and studying. Finally, He spoke in the low, harsh whisper that was so frighteningly familiar to her. "My child," He began warmly, "I would give you anything." He stood and regarded her for a moment more before He continued. "As long as it was something I want to give."

Jude frowned, confused.

"Cherub," He moved along. "I know nothing of loyalty. People do not follow Me because I inspire loyalty. They follow Me because they are either afraid or they think I will give them something they value even above their own lives. Money, power…the dark secrets of the soul are not hidden from Me." The Dark Lord began slowly pacing before her, gliding back and forth like an impatient snake. "And you are neither afraid nor are you governed by greed or desire. I have no use for you…" He suddenly stopped his pacing. "Alive, that is."

Jude fought the fast constricting in her chest, the anxiety that warned her of crippling fear. She steadied her nerves, forcing calm over her features. "You want me dead," she repeated in a soulless monotone. "Well," she continued without fear, boldly, "that tells me one thing I didn't know before."

"And what is that, Cherub?" Voldemort asked, nearing boredom.

"That You fear me."

Voldemort fixed a burning glare upon her. "Preposterous," He exclaimed after a moment of hesitation. She read it as bluster, false confidence.

"The only reason for killing me is that I am a threat…either that or I am in the way," she surmised cleverly. "And as You must have gathered already, I am no longer working against You, helping Your enemies. You could have left me in that club, passed out on the floor, another homeless, jobless bum in London. I wanted out of this mess, this bloody war of good versus evil that took nearly everything I had away." She took another menacing step forward. "But You didn't leave me. You _are_ afraid of me, of my power."

Under His dark shrouds the shriveled form of the once all-powerful Lord Voldemort was seething. "I made you! You are _nothing_ without Me!"

Jude took a few more steps forward, noting a honey-colored marble table just to her left displaying an impressive collection of ornate swords and rapiers, generations old and fiercely deadly. Her hand moved with quick stealth. She seized a thin, sharp fencing blade by the intricate handle and brought the point forward, leveling the steel just under the Dark Lord's pale and withered chin. "I am nothing without You? Care to test that theory?"

"You don't have it in you, little one," Voldemort rasped, His eyes riveted on the blade at his throat, still unearthly calm.

She pressed it against flesh. "You don't know what I'm capable of. You were always too cautious to find out." Her teeth were clenched in anger, her jaw tensely tight. "Even when I was little You kept me at arms' length. So careful…careful that I didn't learn too much…careful that I didn't become too powerful…careful that You could still control me." She laughed a quiet maniacal laugh. "You were good…so good that it has taken me all these years to realize. I was always more powerful than You were."

"Ludicrous," He hissed, raising a hand slightly.

"Ah ah," she warned, pressing the blade further into the pale flesh. It was so easy. She found that she had no qualms about pushing this razor sharp edge through the soft vital tissue of a man's neck, ending life. Do it, a voice in her head told her. It is the most intoxicating feeling in the world, to know that you wield the power to take a man's life. She smiled.

Lord Voldemort locked eyes with His one-time protégé. "You could never hope to have My power, not until you can cut through the flesh of a man without a thought, without a moment's hesitation." And in the barest of seconds Lord Voldemort's eyes flicked from Jude's stern face to a point just behind her. It was then that she felt the cold sting of a weapon at her own throat.

"Drop it," said a cool, familiar voice from behind her. Jude slowly lowered her sword and turned to face Lucius Malfoy. A pair of wide bronze doors stood open at the far end of the hall, its warm surface reflecting the candlelight onto the rows of exotic and expensive weapons scattered all over the room. "Now," Lucius instructed, "take three steps toward me and slide your weapon across the floor."

Jude complied cautiously, her face expressionless.

"That's a good girl," he said, his weapon still leveled at her. With the toe of his boot, he hooked the sword Jude had dropped and caught it with little effort in his free hand. "It is very poor manners to threaten a guest in my home."

She stared at the point of two blades, but spoke with mocking calm. "You're one to give a lesson in manners, Malfoy. Which one is it? To you take orders from Him because you're afraid of Him? Or are you greedy, power hungry?" She shrugged. "I think it's the latter."

Voldemort folded His thick robes around Him and regally resumed His seat, watching the scene with much pleasure. Malfoy narrowed his eyes scathingly, hatred in his every move. The Dark Lord raised one robed hand and gestured to Malfoy. "Hand her the weapon, Lucius."

"Sir?" he asked, confused.

"Hand her the weapon," He repeated without room for argument. "This promises to be quite entertaining."

Lucius tossed her sword into the air, catching it by the blade and extending the handle within arms' length of her. Reluctantly, Jude wrapped her fingers around the weapon's hilt. He released it and she let the point fall to the floor. His much larger broadsword was still taking deadly aim.

"What?" she taunted Lord Voldemort. "You don't have the bollocks to do the job yourself?" She took a step toward Voldemort. "Do it!" she shouted. "For I won't play games!" Lucius blade was at her throat in a moment.

She turned and raised her left hand, her face angry and her lips pronouncing the words of the curse too easily. Lucius' face registered horror for an instant before he realized that she was practically defenseless.

The Dark Lord laughed. "Did you think I wouldn't take care of that little problem, Precious?" He steepled His fingers under His chin, truly pleased. "The effects of the drugs last quite a bit longer than you think."

Malfoy's expression flashed from embarrassment to rage as quick as a blink. He raised his sword and brought it down with all his might over her head. Swiftly, she brought her blade up just in time to block the deadly blow. She moved as fast as she could and just managed to duck a powerful sideways thrust, her mind reeling from confusion. She felt fine, so why should she be powerless now?

Malfoy swung again and again, gaining more ground, forcing her to back away. Clearly he was the superior in strength and skill. Her small size was an advantage of its own, giving her speed and agility, but it was just enough to keep her from being carved up by his sword. Soon Jude was gasping for air, her arms aching with every blow she blocked. There was never enough strength left in her to counter him. And so she backed and blocked, knowing that she could not keep it up for long.

As he dealt her another bone crushing blow, she quickly cast around for a more substantial weapon. Against the wall was a row of medieval battleaxes. She threw the thin fencing foil to the floor and raced for the ax. She pulled one from the wall and almost fell to the ground under its immense weight. Jude held it in both hands and swung it with all of her might. With a jarring clang it connected with Lucius' sword in a satisfying clash that rattled every bone in her body. Trying to heft the thing again was out of the question, so she threw it with what strength remained in her tired arms. The long broad wooden handle crashed into his knee with considerable force causing him to falter. It was just the opportunity she needed.

In front of her lay a collection of beautiful inlaid ornamental sabers and other decorated swords. She grabbed the first one, at once feeling comfortable with its weight and strength. She swung it in a few slow arcs over her head, getting a feel for the new blade. Lucius smiled cunningly and advanced. She gritted her teeth and took the blow, but this time she sliced back at him following his swing. He dodged backward easily but he was no longer smiling. A determined cool marked his features and he was out for blood.

She leapt over a low cutting blow and overturned a table of lances and spears, sending them rolling across the floor. But he was still close. She ran as fast as she could with Lucius hot on her heels. The large bronze doors were at least ten yards away and she still had no clue what she planned to do once she got there. It was as she neared that she was caught so off guard that she almost stumbled over her own feet. Peter Pettigrew stood frozen just beyond the threshold, startled as he was about to enter his Master's sanctum sanctorum. They locked eyes and the short, fat man's face twitched in fear just moments before his head was cleaved from his body.

Jude brought the blade before her eyes, examining the slick red surface, running her pale hand over the blood, her eyes glazed as if in a dream state. It was a numb moment before she turned and faced Malfoy. He hesitated when he saw her reveling in the blood of the slain like a child in fresh snow, marveling at the shade of red on her fingers. When she looked up into his face, a small smile twisted the corners of her lips and he stood frozen, deliciously, by the sight of her.

Jude swung, her blade hissing through the air and catching Malfoy on the cheek. The same color of red crept to the surface and seeped out of the gash on his once fine face. Jude raised her blade again while the man was dazed and prepared to strike once more when a sound made her freeze.

"Jude!" Draco Malfoy stood just behind her in the shadow of the great bronze doors where Peter had stood just moments before. The boy glanced from the body bleeding on the marble to his friend and finally to his father.

"Draco," she breathed, horrified.

Lucius wasted no opportunity. He swung wide with his sword but she quickly turned and blocked the blow. The blood on her hands loosened her grip on her weapon and it clattered to the floor with the force of her parry. Lucius followed through with a vice grip on her shoulder, spinning her around and pinning her to his chest, his sword at her throat. Jude swallowed hard and knew that Lucius was smiling.

"Go on, you smug bastard," Jude hissed, her eyes on the shocked face of the boy in the doorway. "Show your son just what kind of a hero you are." The blade bit deeper into her skin.

"Father," Draco said softly. "Don't…"

Jude chuckled. "Since when did you hesitate to kill women who defy you, Lucius? You had no problem killing your wife!" She could feel tiny rivulets of blood drip down her chest.

"Shut up!" Lucius yelled, his smile gone.

"Father?" his son questioned, bewildered. He studied Jude's face. "It's true?"

Jude could feel the heat of his rage against her skin. "Don't listen to her!" Lucius bellowed.

Draco's stern features, so much like his father's, crumpled in pain and confusion. Without warning he ran to a wide, cloth-draped table where a lone exquisite blade rested. Jude and Lucius both stared wide-eyed at the point of the beautiful sword. "Let her go!" he cried, his voice so full of anger and betrayal he could barely speak.

Lucius hesitated, unsure of what to do. He stared at the blade and then at the devastated face of his only son. Finally he steeled his resolve. "As you wish," he acquiesced simply, gripping Jude by the arms suddenly and thrusting her forward. Caught off guard by the immediate force, Jude stumbled and fell forward. Lucius smiled into his son's horror-stricken face. Draco shuddered, feeling the weight of her on him, the wet heat of blood.

Jude choked one gurgling cough and fell limb in Draco's arms. His legs buckled and they both fell to the ground. Draco couldn't help but look at what he'd done. Jude lay next to him, her blood forming an ever widening circle of the deepest red on the pale marble, the exquisite Eternal Blade sticking gruesomely out of her convulsing chest. Her gaze wandered to Draco. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.


End file.
